


Motel California

by Arlome



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Murder, Case Fic, Chloe KNOWS, F/M, Murder, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-09-26 11:25:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17140898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome
Summary: " And so, this is how they find themselves - two weeks after the first victim was discovered - caged in this sorry excuse for a motel room, posing as a couple – sort of; a somewhat hasty development in their relationship –made up as it may be - when one considers that only recently they decided to stop walking on egg-shells around each other.It doesn’t always work."A serial killer, a tiny, claustrophobic room at a cheap motel, and a reluctant, skittish partner who used to rule Hell. What can possibly go wrong?Set after season 3, but disregards the upcoming season 4 and its rumoured plot entirely.Entry for the 'Lucifer Bingo' prompt, "Samael".





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was initially planned as a one-shot answer to a prompt made by my darling Efi-chan (Deckerstar, stuck in a room somewhere, much smut, Ella walks in), but I ended up writing waayyyyyy too much and it ended up being a six-chapter fic that probably took some years off my ledger.  
> I hope you enjoy the angst:)  
> Merry Christmas to all who celebrate:)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much gratitude to my beloved [Obliobla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla), who offered to take upon herself the horrifying task of betaing this swill. Thanks for calling me out on the Britishism, Obli. Much appreciated, love :P

The motel’s got a 3.8 rating on booking.com.

If you ask Chloe, the people who took the trouble grading the facilities of this establishment were quite generous in their evaluations.

It takes her and Lucifer about twenty minutes to check in, and then he’s forced to pay cash because the motel’s cash register doesn’t accept credit cards.(“ _ What establishment in the year 2018 doesn’t accept cards, Detective?” _ he whispers exasperatedly in her ear when the jaded clerk at the front desk turns around to look for change in his pockets.)

She only shrugs apologetically at him, secretly wondering the same thing herself. In a lovely addition,the vending machines at the reception are out of order, and Chloe spies with her little eye a washed-out stain near the entrance to one of the rooms that looks suspiciously like blood.

But the greatest star of all in this divine comedy is the room that the two partners get to share for the worthwhile cost of fifty-five dollars a night.

The faded yellow door creaks miserably when she tries to pry it open, flakes of peeling paint falling on her hand. Behind her, the Devil releases a long-suffering breath.

“Well, isn’t this a gem?” she hears him mutter bad-temperedly as they shuffle inside the somewhat claustrophobic room. Chloe must admit there’s something to Lucifer’s sullenness.

Calling the space a  _ room  _ is somewhat stretching it; a cell would probably fit the description better, she thinks sarcastically, as she lowers the bag slung over her shoulder to the carpeted floor. The walls are coated in a worn-down layer of green that could have once been described as ‘vibrant’, and, apart from one askew framed picture of two kittens hanging by the door, they are bare. There is only one bed – barely big enough to fit two people – two tiny nightstands, one wooden console with a television set that looks like it came straight out of the ‘70s, a creaking chair, and a cheap plastic coffee maker with the requisite set of paper cups. Chloe takes a step into the room and peaks through the half-open door to the bathroom: white tiles, a tarnished shelf with another set of paper cups, a cracked tub, and a chipped mirror. Well, this will have to do.

She turns around at the sound of anguish coming from behind her. Lucifer is browsing through the complimentary coffee/tea tray with apparent distaste; the look he’s giving the coffee is simply priceless.

“Is the castle not to your liking, my Liege?” Chloe asks good-naturedly, and Lucifer drops the tiny packet as if it smells of something vile.

“It does lack some finery, I must admit,” he deadpans, but the corners of his lips are twitching, and the glance he casts in her direction tells Chloe he’s amused.

This is good. This is… _ good. _ They’ve been due ‘good’ for a while now.

They’re here, in this hellhole of a motel, for a case. It’s not theirs, it’s Dan’s, but things have seemed to be getting out of hand, and he needed help, and, well… she owes him that much.

They found the first victim – a 37-year-old truck driver named Andy Craig – stashed in an alley outside of a local bar just across the road from the motel. He was tall, dark, and strangled, and he stayed at this decaying, filthy accommodation, of all places under the sun. He was just resting for the night, and out for a drink – at least that’s what he told the bartender at that local bar, a few hours before he died.

The second victim was a 33-year-old engineer named Josh Adams, who was cheating on his wife with her Pilates instructor, who had a good pair of tits and legs for days – all according to the observations of the pimply, barely-out-of-his-teens clerk who checked the necking couple in. Josh too liked a nightcap before bed, and, very much like Andy, was also tall, dark and dead – with the final resting place in the alley, and the ligature marks around his neck to match.

The third victim, 36-year-old Mike Baker, who was trying his luck late in life, wishing to be somebody in the glamorous City of Angels, was no different.

Out of leads, full of dead ends, and with what seemed like a serial killer on the loose, Dan was out of options. The situation was declared all-hands-on-deck, Chloe and Lucifer were roped in, and then somebody just  _ had  _ to point out how much Lucifer fit the serial killer’s profile.

Because, apparently, the Devil is tall, dark, and in his thirties. And, seemingly, quite benevolent as well, because he agreed to help almost instantly, with nearly no hesitation and just a quick side glance at her.

And so, this is how they find themselves – two weeks after the first victim was discovered – caged in this sorry excuse for a motel room, posing as a couple – sort of. This a somewhat hasty development in their relationship –made up as it may be - when one considers that only recently they decided to stop walking on egg-shells around each other.

It doesn’t always work.

“Well, it’s only for a few days, hopefully,” she says and points to the bags. “Should we unpack? I could do yours too if you’d like.”

“Yes, thank you, Detective,” he says and removes his jacket, flinging it on the bed. Chloe tries not to stare.

He’s not dressed as himself for this case; can’t, really – because nobody would ever believe that a man who can afford an Armani three-piece suit would stay in this dump of his own free will. No, he’s not wearing a tailor-made, God-only-knows the thread count suit; he’s wearing fitting jeans, and a t-shirt and that leather jacket he had back in the early days of their partnership, back when she shot him.

He may not look like the Lucifer Morningstar L.A. knows, but he still looks good enough to eat. And then some.

Which is not helping matters at all, because things have never been more awkward between them, and the tension alone can be channelled towards weapon manufacturing, and now – of all freaking times – they are stuck in a room with one bed and no escape option.

Chloe drops both bags on the bed while Lucifer busies himself on his phone.

“Hey,” she calls to him without turning, “can you check if the console has drawers, and if so, do they open?”

He doesn’t answer, but she can hear the screeching noises of wood being manipulated into cooperation after aeons of being stuck into place by substances the nature of which she has no wish of discovering.

“It has, and it does,” he answers after some more tugging, and she hums her thanks in reply.

The first bag she opens is his; all his grooming toiletries are there, and she puts them aside in a group destined for the meagre bathroom. Next, come the t-shirts, another pair of pants, some black boxer briefs that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe, and—

She pauses when she reaches the socks.

There are five pairs, each one a different colour, and adorned with some geometric design, or a funny cartoon character. And suddenly Chloe can’t help herself, and giggles.

“What’s so funny?” he asks from behind, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how they get back to  _ them. _

She turns around with a pair of socks in her hands and finds him fidgeting with the TV.

“Who knew the Devil had such funky socks,” she chuckles, wiggling the pair in her hand before his eyes. Lucifer straightens and fixes her with a look that she can’t quite read and her smile falters.

“Well, it can’t be pitchforks and horns all the time, Detective,” he says with a strange tint to his voice. “Not all my clothes are as black as my soul.”

He’s hurt. This much is obvious. She’s an idiot, and she can’t catch a break.

So much for not walking on egg-shells.

“No, Lucifer,” she stutters, desperately trying to recall the silly high from just a moment before; tries to get back to that lovely minute when she could hear him smiling. “I-I didn’t mean it like that—“

“Don’t worry, Detective,” he tells her, and gives her that sad smile of his that speaks of reconciling oneself with constant judgment and rejection. “It’s fine.”

But it’s not fine. Nothing is.

Not anymore.

***

“So, we know that all victims stayed in this motel, and all frequented the bar across the road some hours before they died.”

She’s sitting on the bed, cross-legged, with the case file in her hands. Lucifer is lounging in the only chair in the room, his long legs stretched before him, arms folded behind his head. His eyes are closed, and he appears dead to the world.

“So, it’s safe to assume that the killer is one of the bar patrons?” he asks, not bothering to open his eyes.

Chloe frowns and regards the file.

“Maybe,” she says, twisting her mouth in frustration, “but Dan asked around… There aren’t any regulars – nobody that stayed for the duration of the killing spree – at least not according to the bartender.”

Lucifer hums and turns his head in her direction. His eyes are finally open.

“And the bartender?” he asks flatly. Chloe shakes her head.

“She was serving drinks all night on all three occasions, apparently,” she says; Lucifer hums again and turns his head away from her to stare at the ceiling. Consulting her file once more, Chloe adds, “It seems that the back alley doesn’t have any cameras, so that’s a bust.”

Over in the chair, Lucifer frowns.

“What a pity,” he mutters, “and so very convenient for our murderer.”

It’s Chloe’s turn to hum.

“It is,” she agrees, and looks up at him, only to find him studying her again.

“So, what’s our plan?” he asks, when he’s sure he has her undivided attention. “We go in as a cheating couple? Drink the bar dry and wait for the killer to try and strangle me?”

She frowns at him, and he smirks at her. Oh, he’s joking. Sort of.

Well, she supposes this is better than nothing. She’ll take it.

“Well, as entertaining as it may be for me to watch,” she says and cocks her eyebrow; Lucifer’s smile widens. “Sadly, no. You walk in by yourself, I will take a distant table where I might be inconspicuous. I’ll have an earpiece, so I’ll be able to hear what you are saying. You’ll sit at the bar and chat with the bartender; attract attention. You know”—she gestures with her hand in his general direction—“be you.”

“Right,” he chuckles and stretches, the hem of his t-shirt riding upwards and revealing a sliver of skin; Chloe buries her nose in the case file.

“Right,” she echoes, not daring to lift her head from the papers. Ogling her Devilish partner is out of the question now.

After another five minutes of staring at the file and not seeing a damned thing, she sighs and throws the wretched folder as far away from her as possible; it lands with a satisfying  _ thump _ on the other side of the bed.

“What’s on your mind?” she hears from the direction of the chair and turns to see Lucifer regarding her with interest.

“Nothing.” she shrugs and yawns; she’s suddenly so tired she could sleep for a week. “Just thought it might be a good time to turn in.”

Lucifer looks at his watch and frowns.

“It’s only ten o’clock, Detective; is it past your curfew already?”

Chloe throws a pillow at him, which he grabs out of thin air. Inhumanly fast. Because he’s  _ not _ human. She shakes her head to rid herself of these thoughts; best not go down the rabbit hole now.

“Don’t be an ass,” she says instead, falling back on the bed. “Busy day tomorrow, killer to catch and all that.”

“And you’re knackered,” he adds, sitting a bit straighter in the wretched chair. At Chloe’s inquiring lift of an eyebrow he shrugs. “You were yawning so widely, I frankly am astounded you managed to keep from dislocating your jaw. Go on, Detective; rest your pretty head.”

Chloe waits for a few minutes and then sits up, puzzled, to regards him when it becomes obvious that he’s not budging from the chair.

“Well, what about you?” she asks, her brow creasing.

“What about me?”

She looks at the bed; there’s enough space for them both if they sleep pressed together. Her face feels incredibly warm at the thought.

“Aren’t you going to…you know...” The blush is threatening to engulf her entire head, ears included. “Rest too? Here, with me?”

She expects him to snort and tell her off for daring to assume that he would ever get into bed at such an early hour when sex isn’t on the table; she even expects a smug smile or a naughty remark. What she does not expect, however, is the look of resignation on his face, and the lowered gaze he keeps averting from her.

“Out of the question, darling.” He answers so softly, that, for a moment, she’s not even sure she’s heard him speak at all.

“W-what?” She matches his quiet tone, not daring to voice her inquiry out loud. For surely, if she were to speak above a whisper, the choking lump accumulating in her throat would swell to a suffocating size.

Lucifer fidgets with his watch in lieu of his absent cufflinks. He’s clearly uncomfortable and skittish, no doubt wanting to be as far away from her as inhumanely possible.

Lead settles in her belly; blood drains from her face.

So, this is how he finally breaks her.

“You’ve…not been sleeping well, have you, Detective?” he offers at last when the silence is too dense and bracing for either of them to bear. “I can see it as plain as day.”

He’s not wrong, of course. She’s not had a full night of sleep ever since the fiasco with the man who claimed to love her; ever since—

It’s not for fear of him or his Devil face that she loses sleep at night; but rather for the anguish that she suffers on his account, and for the impossible truth that was laid at her door. God is real, angels are real, and the Devil…?

The Devil is a man who has seen too many days, too many sorrows, and not enough light.

Not since the stars, and the moon, and the sun; not since the Fall.

“What about it?” she chokes, already starting to feel the deep stinging behind her eyes; she knows how this ends.

He scoffs and finally looks at her, and the look on his face would send her to her knees, praying, if she ever believed in that sort of thing (yes, even now). He looks shattered, devastated, and all she wants to do is cast herself at him and assure him of redemption. But she doesn’t. There is no knowing how he might react.

The Devil doesn’t want redemption… does he?

“Chloe…” The way her name slips from his lips, the sad smile that accompanies it; it wracks her. she shakes her head desperately, and he moves in his chair as though he means to go to her. “If you were to wake up from a nightmare in the middle of the night and see me in bed with you…I don’t think I’ll live down the look on your face. Selfish of me, I know.”

But he stays put, and she finds herself unable to move as well. How can he be so  _ wrong _ ?

“No…” she breathes, tears building in her eyes. “No, you’re wrong, Lucifer…”

“So, you’ve not been having nightmares lately?” he asks, and the sarcastic tone in his voice, that almost cruel twist of his mouth cut at her like steel.

“No, I have, but—“

_ But they are not of you. _

She is unable to say it; the words are rising in her throat, blocked at the gates of her vocal cords, and she can’t cough them out.

How did it all go so wrong between them?

At first, when she sees his face for the first time on that day in that wretched loft, she’s frightened out of her wits. Not of him, as such – not of his face – but of the idea that he exists in the world, and, with him, the rest of the divine that has claims upon her soul.

But later, when the sheer panic passes, she begins to ache for him.

It’s not a sort of throbbing for his presence or his body, but for  _ him _ – for his  _ being _ . She simply  _ aches _ and feels pain on his behalf.

And she usually manages to suppress it during the day, to throw herself into work, to drown herself in the coconut scent of her daughter’s hair; but at night… At night the ache comes, and it lives, and thrives in the cavity of her chest, until all she can do is cry herself to sleep.

And the dreams?

They are full of his Fall, of his burning flesh and of his pain; they are full of his loneliness, and his rejection.

But no, they are not of him. They are  _ for _ him.

And the worst part of it all is that she misses him – the him before the truth – she misses him as a friend, misses him as a partner, and, as silly as it may sound, misses him as the lover that he may have become had not—

Had not Cain, had not life, had not this stale air between them that no open window can dispel.

“I’m…” She’s almost crying in earnest now, tears crawling down her heated cheeks. “I’m not afraid of you, Lucifer; I’m not...”

He smiles sadly at her but stays firm in his refusal.

“Truth is, darling, I do not need much sleep, as you recall,” he says placatingly, reaching for his bag that lies at his feet. “I have my kindle with me –- true, I’d have preferred a proper book, but dire circumstances and all – don’t worry on my account. Go to sleep, Chloe.”

A headache from repressing her tears for so long embraces Chloe like a lover. She closes her eyes, too tired to  _ be _ . In the background, she hears him moving around, hears running water, and some rummaging in one of the bags. Soon, she feels a weight upon the bed by her side and opens her eyes to darkness.

He turned off the light to ease the pressure on her irritated eyes. She takes a shuddering breath and looks at him. Lucifer sits on the edge of the bed, close enough to her so that she feels his warmth even though he’s not pressed to her. He offers her a glass of water and two advil.

“Here, darling”—he drops the pills into her hand—“drink these.”

Chloe does as she’s told, rather obediently, and settles against the musty pillows, not bothering to brush her teeth or change into her sleeping wear. She feels drained, fatigued beyond words, exactly as she did after her father’s funeral. It’s grief, she realises with a broken heart; she grieves.

“Now,” Lucifer begins after he’s assured of her cooperation, “let me tell you a funny little story about Amenadiel and a certain prank involving some mangos and a rather large pineapple that Azrael and yours truly pulled on him…”

She falls asleep to the sound of his voice.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe wakes up after an emotionally draining conversation to realise that things did not change miraculously overnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the second chapter of angst!
> 
> If you find any horrendous mistakes in this chapter, I do apologize - I edited it over a few glasses of wine:) 
> 
> Also, I must say, I'm very disappointed nobody asked about the Mangos/large Pineapple story; really, people, where is your sense of curiosity?!
> 
> Obli, you're the queen of grammar, thank you for your hard work!
> 
> Right, onwards with the show!

It’s still somewhat dark when she wakes up the following morning, feeling as if she was run over by a semi-trailer truck.

The room does not improve on second impression in the early grey of dawning light, and Chloe feels the stifling weight of  _ something _ pressing down on her chest. Human feelings, as Maze would undoubtedly say,  _ suck. _

She looks over at her silent companion, only to find him dozing in the wretched chair, his long legs stretched before him, head propped against the back of the seat, and arms folded over a still open Kindle. She briefly wonders what’s on the Devil’s reading list; she somehow doubts she’ll find Milton’s  _ Paradise Lost _ among the titles.

(“ _ ‘Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heaven’ – what a load of rubbish, Detective; I obviously never said any of that, _ ” he would protest, sucking the nicotine out of his cigarette and drinking expensive whiskey from his crystal glass. “ _ Free will – to be my own man – was the only thing I’ve ever wanted. _ ”)

Rising from the bed, Chloe creeps quietly towards the bathroom to relieve herself and brush her teeth without waking him up. Let sleeping dragons  _ – _ or devils - _ – _ lie, she thinks, at least for the moment. When her getting-ready morning routine is over, she creeps out just as softly as she crept in, and stops in her tracks to regard her sleeping partner.

He looks haggard, like he, too, has not had a proper rest for ages; his hair is mussed, eyeliner smudged – as if he was running his hand through his hair half the night, and rubbing his eyes when fatigue finally kicked in – and his lips are slightly parted, so that she catches a glimpse of his impeccably white teeth.

Chloe almost sighs; Lucifer must have the prettiest set of lips she’s ever seen on a man. Possibly on a woman, too.

Finally deciding to wake the poor man up, she leans forward and cups his cheek gently, and he jerks awake immediately, instantly alert.

“Good morning,” she says, smiling gently at him, and her heart skips a beat when he groggily returns her smile.

“Morning,” he mutters, his voice delightfully raspy. “How’s your head, Detective?”

“Better, thank you,” she answers, still smiling. “I’m not going to ask how you slept, because you can’t lie.”

He has the nerve to smile sheepishly at her.

“Yes, so I thought…” She frowns and jerks her head towards the bed. “Alright, in you go; I’m already up, so you’ve got no more excuses. Go on, Lucifer; rest your pretty head.” She throws his own words back at him, and he rises from the chair without any objections.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says and salutes, and she pushes him towards the bed, where he makes a great show of stumbling and falling onto the mattress.

“Now sleep, while I go and get us some breakfast,” she orders, rummaging through one of the sticky console drawers for some fresh clothes, before turning to Lucifer, brandishing a rather threatening, pointed finger at him, “and that’s an order!”

He salutes again but settles back to rest against the covers, and when Chloe feels that rebellion and resistance have been safely averted, she heads into the bathroom to change for the day. When she comes out, five minutes later, Lucifer’s already asleep, lying atop the covers, with his arms and ankles crossed, as if even in sleep he’s uncomfortable with their entire situation. Chloe slinks out of the room, incredibly careful with the door so as not to wake him and inevitably plagued by feelings of guilt.

He’s still sleeping, forty-five minutes later, when she returns with two cups of coffee and two freshly made sandwiches in hand. He looks so exhausted that she opts not to wake him, but let him sleep until rising comes naturally to him. So, to distract herself from fixating on the fact that the man she aches for at night sleeps in uneasy slumber just a few feet from her, Chloe decides to get started with the day. She downs her coffee, reaches for the discarded case file, sits down on the chair, and, using the console as a makeshift table, wolfs down her sandwich. When it becomes obvious that her sleeping partner is not about to wake up anytime soon, she downs his cup of coffee as well.

At about eleven, and after Chloe has read and memorised the damn file cover to cover, Lucifer stirs and rises, rubbing his eyes like a toddler.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” She smiles fondly and throws his sandwich at him. “This was very fresh a few hours ago, but I didn’t have the heart to wake you. You looked like you could use the extra hours of rest.”

Lucifer stretches and nods, eyeing the offering suspiciously. “What’s this?”

“Breakfast.” Chloe answers and rises to start the coffee maker; he’ll probably want his spiked coffee, or something resembling it, at least.

She’s not wrong there.

He takes the proffered cup of coffee, spills half of the content of his flask into it and sits on the edge of the bed to eat his sandwich. Oddly enough, and to Chloe’s eternal delight, he does not complain even once.

_ He must still be tired, _ she thinks guiltily.

“So,” he asks when he’s done eating, “what are we doing for lunch?”

Chloe laughs, and he smiles charmingly at her.

“You just had breakfast!”

“Always be prepared.” He shrugs and sips some of his coffee, keeping the grimacing to a minimum. “So, are we going out? We are a couple, after all.”

Trying to ignore the nervous fluttering in her stomach at how nice that sounds, she clears her throat and presses her fingers to her nape.

“Um, no,” she says, completely unable to look at him. “Ella called. She has some information for us; she said she’ll come by sometime after noon, with lunch.”

Lucifer downs the rest of his coffee and rises from the bed.

“Very well,” he says and places the cup on the console, his arm brushing against Chloe’s back. “I have great faith in Miss Lopez and her gastronomic taste. Now, I’ll just pop into the shower, shall I?”

He’s not waiting for a response, but practically dives into the bathroom and slams the door behind him. He’s still uncomfortable, and she’s still miserable. Nothing seems to chase away the tension.

Chloe doesn’t move for a long while; her back still tingles.

***

True to her word, bouncy ray-of-sunshine Ella Lopez arrives at their lovely hovel at 12:45 sharp, carrying her backpack and three deliciously smelling, greasy bags of Mexican food. Lucifer unburdens her from her baggage at the door, inhaling the rising scent with a look of pure ecstasy on his handsome face.

“Oh, Miss Lopez,” he moans obscenely, making Chloe blush to the roots of her hair, “you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

The tiny forensic scientist flashes him a grateful smile and pushes at his arm playfully.

“Oh, Lucifer,” she croons, winking at Chloe, “you say the sweetest things!”

“You’ve got news for us, Ella?” Chloe cuts to the chase, because this – the happy, carefree Lucifer that her friend can freely appreciate – is probably forever lost to her. She’s suddenly jealous, and hurt, and feels incredibly stupid and petty.

Lucifer looks scandalised by the swift turn to work issues.

“How about we eat first, Detective; ‘talk shop’ later?”

“Or,” Ella cuts in, a stack of papers ready in her hand, “how about we eat while working? Where can we all sit?”

The three of them look around the ‘cell’ dejectedly; the room is small, and dreadful, and feels like a can of sardines, but Ella is nothing if not an optimist.

“Oh, I know!” she cries, grabbing the rumpled cover from the bed and spreading it over the shred of floor that stretches from the bed to the wall. “There! Now we can all sit together. Come on down here; it will be like a mini picnic!”

It takes some manoeuvring, but soon they’re all situated with their backs against the bed, pressed against each other, with Ella in the middle. She spreads the papers in front of her, while Lucifer arranges the food on the cover.

“So, we have some very interesting results from the autopsy,” she begins excitedly, stuffing some beef empanada in her mouth, and thickly adds, “sorry, I’m just super hungry,“ around the big bite. From the corner of her eye, Chloe sees Lucifer smiling affectionately at their friend and her appetite for the half-eaten taco on her plate disappears entirely. Something in her chest twinges painfully at the openness; an openness she’s been robbed of when—

But it’s futile to think about that now.

“Interesting results, Ella?” she decides to prompt the other woman instead, making her nod frantically and swallow.

“Right! So, as we deduced already, the COD is asphyxiation, but”—Ella holds up a finger, smiling triumphantly, and reaches for one of the papers in front of her—“we also found traces of Flunitrazepam in the vics’ system!”

To their left, Lucifer frowns mid-bite.

“But, that’s Rohypnol, isn’t it?” he asks slowly and fixes his eyes on Chloe. Ella’s smile widens.

“Well done, Lucifer! You know your chemistry; ten points to Ravenclaw!”

“The killer is a woman,” Chloe says suddenly, frantically rearranging the case file and Dan’s additional notes. “Look here! All the vics are super tall.” She points excitedly at the victims’ profiles. “I mean, the shortest one, Andy, is 6’2”! And all of them are quite solidly built. Ella, there were no signs of struggle, were there?”

Ella stares at her, eyes wide open, and shakes her head.

“Exactly!” Chloe exclaims, shoving her finger into the open file. “To be able to strangle three big, tall men that you’re no match to physically, you’d have to roofie them! We’re probably dealing with a woman who’s not large enough to confront a tall man when he’s lucid but strong enough to squeeze the life out of an unresisting body!”

“If these are your arguments, Detective,” Lucifer contradicts softly, fiddling with his plastic fork and not looking up at her, “a slightly built man will also fit the bill; must we really be so gender biased?”

He’s smirking, and she can tell that he’s jerking her chain with the way he ends his sentence, but it doesn’t make his question any less valid.

“They were all straight,” she explains simply, watching Ella nod in agreement as she piles some more food on her plate. “Andy, the truck driver, had a wife; Josh was cheating on his; and Mike just broke up with his girlfriend to go and try out his luck in Hollywood. There was no reason for them to accept a drink from a man they just met if there was no sexual attraction involved. Ergo, the killer is a woman who had some access to alcohol.”

Lucifer finally looks up at her, and his eyes narrow in speculation.

“The bartender,” he suggests, all manner of teasing forgotten, “you said she was a woman.”

But Chloe just frowns and shakes her head.

“True; but she was serving drinks all night, up until closing time. The murders occurred somewhere between midnight and two a.m.; the bar was still open.”

Ella puts away her plate, picks up Dan’s notes, and shrugs. “So? She may not be the murderer, just helping one!”

Chloe looks up at Lucifer who’s looking right back at her with a frown on his face.

“All the more reason for the Devil to draw out her forbidden desires, right?” she asks, smiling a little; but his frown only deepens and her heart sinks. This is not the reaction she’s been expecting her question to invoke, not by a long shot. It seems that no matter what she does, she only ends up making things worse; more strained, more awkward, more… _ more. _ She has no idea what to do to set things back to  _ right, _ doesn’t know how to extract Lucifer and herself from this endless loop of never-ending tension and trampled egg-shells.

And this case?

This case is not helping matters between them.

“Right,” Ella answers instead, seemingly oblivious to the stiffness between the partners, and turns to squeeze Lucifer’s shoulder. “You do your thing, man, and we’ll catch this killer!”

He nods, still frowning at Chloe, but the look in his eyes is distant, and she gets the feeling that he’s not entirely in the room with them.

“Lucifer…?” Ella prods warily, shaking his shoulder a bit. “Everything alright there, buddy?”

He snaps back to himself, a bit dazed, and fixes Ella with a swift smile that has ‘masquerade’ written all over it.

“Fine and dandy, Miss Lopez”—he smiles charmingly at the forensic scientist—“as always.”

“Uh-huh” Ella nods skeptically at the swift evasion, clearly not buying his act. “Well, I better be going,” she says and rises to her feet, brushing off crumbs and any food remains from her pants. “Enjoy the rest of the food, peeps. Chloe, walk me to the car? I’ve got something for you in the trunk.”

Chloe follows her out of the room obediently, but the moment they’re out of the house, the tiny ball of energy rounds up on her with no plans of letting go.

“Okay,” Ella demands, sticking a finger in the detective’s chest. “Spill, girl. What is up with you two? The tension in that room! I mean, either call the fire department or get a room – oh, wait;  _ you did!” _

Chloe sighs and closes her eyes; so Ella did notice.  _ Of course, _ she noticed.

“It’s…complicated,” she explains tightly, not really wishing, or knowing how, to breach the subject. “Things are, well, tense between us at the moment.”

“I noticed,” Ella scoffs, shaking her head. “I mean, how do you cope? There’s only one bed, for starters…”

“He sleeps on the chair,” Chloe says automatically, and Ella’s eyes bulge.

“Woooooow,” she says, whistling. “Dude’s so whipped, he can’t even make a proper pass at you. I mean, I know he acts the British gentleman, and all; but that’s taking it a bit too far if you ask me…”

Chloe kicks a tiny pebble with her foot. How can she even begin to describe the clusterfuck that is her odd relationship with Lucifer to her friend?

Somehow, she thinks that explaining that he’s the Devil, and she’s Chloe Decker, a 35-year-old honest to God (oh,  _ ha-ha _ ) miracle with a nine-year-old child, may come across as a bit insane.

“It’s not that, Ella,” she says instead. “I don’t think he wants to anymore.”

Ella snorts and laughs a little manically.

“Are you for real, Chlo?” she cries, gesturing wildly with her hands as a means to vent off her frustration. “That man over there is madly –  _ madly _ – in love with you; he’s just being his usual, emotionally-constipated self. Anybody with  _ eyes _ can see what Lucifer feels for you, girl.”

Well, apparently ‘anybody with eyes’ needs to get said eyes checked.

“Right,” Chloe says, her gaze averted. “Well, I better get back inside, or he’ll start suspecting that we’re conspiring against him.”

Ella frowns sadly, and throws herself at the detective, enveloping her in a stifling hug; Chloe jumps in surprise, but her limbs stay trapped in the forced embrace.

“Don’t worry, Chlo,” Ella sighs, face pressed to Chloe’s chest, “you’ll work out your differences in no time, and we’ll have beautiful Deckerstar babies to pamper! I mean, I thought you and Pierce looked good together, but man! You and Lucifer?! Holy moley, you two are like  _ divine _ together or something! That man is so pretty, he makes me want to sigh half the time, and  _ you _ —“

Ella’s verbal diarrhoea is interrupted by Chloe’s hysterical laughter.

The Devil and a miracle – they can hardly be less divine if they tried. Chloe briefly wonders where Ella stands on all matters concerning the Antichrist.

The forensic scientist releases her hesitatingly and looks at her with an unsure smile and the beginning of a worried frown.

“Right,” Ella says, nodding uncertainly, and starts retreating to her car without turning her back, “then I will leave you both to it.” And, diving into her car, she hurriedly adds, “See you in a few, Decker,” and slams the door shut.

Chloe is still laughing wildly when Ella’s car pulls away, tears running down her face, her belly aching. She can’t seem to stop, and, through the ringing in her ears, doesn’t hear the door behind her open, until, bent double and rocking backwards, she bumps into Lucifer’s abdomen. His hands are at her waist, steadying her and stopping her from falling before either of them realises that he’s holding her. Chloe jumps forward and turns to him.

“What has you laughing so hard, darling?” he asks with the beginning of a smile, now lounging in the doorway like a being made of pure lust and sin.

_ Well. _

“Can you father the Antichrist?” Chloe blurts out before she can stop herself, and watches in sinking misery as the smile drops completely from his lips. He closes his eyes and releases a pained breath.

“There is no such thing as the Antichrist, Detective,” he says quietly, opening his eyes to fix her with a look that smacks of disappointment, “but if you mean can I procreate, then the answer is ‘yes’; I can father a child, but I most definitely am  _ not _ planning to.”

Chloe nods, wringing her hands in mortification, unable to look into his disappointed eyes again. She hears him exhale tiredly somewhere above her head.

“Let me guess,” he sighs, and his voice is soft – almost deceptively so – as if they are near a sickbed, or in Trixie’s room, after she’s fallen asleep, “Miss Lopez suggested something along the lines of ‘beautiful Deckerstar babies’, and it got you thinking?”

She nods, ashamed; tears gathering in her eyes.

Lucifer laughs, and the sound is cruel and harsh, and she can’t help but wonder if this is how he sounded, back in—

“Don’t worry, Detective,” he cries in manic glee, already retreating into the room, “such ill fate will never befall  _ you _ ; consider yourself saved from the Devil’s attentions.”

The door smashing in her face feels like a ringing slap to her cheek. Suddenly sick to her stomach, she leans forward and brings up the little lunch she did eat, tears clouding her sight. Bile burns down her throat, her belly cramps in pain, and she sobs in earnest, leaning against the door to fortify herself against the agony of it all.

She keeps putting her foot in her mouth, keeps hurting him with misguided assumptions and half-truths – or downright lies – she managed to glean online.  _ Or rather _ , a small voice pipes from somewhere to the right of her spleen,  _ he keeps hurting himself at your expense. _

And maybe both guesses are wrong. Maybe, they keep hurting each other, and themselves, because the misunderstandings are now too great to resolve, the knots are too tight to untangle, and this is how things are going to be between them from now on. Maybe, no matter how hard she tries, she’ll never get through to him, never reassure him of her – of her what? Her feelings? Her understanding?

Of her love?

And maybe, no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never let her.

Perhaps the Devil and his miracle  _ are _ a lost cause.

Sometime later, when Chloe finally drags herself inside the room, she finds Lucifer reading in bed, his expression thunderous. He glances up at her, no doubt ready to dismiss her as an insect, but one look at her face drives him off the bed and into her orbit.

“Detective—“ he begins, worry and guilt etched on his face. “What—?”

“I’m an idiot,” she croaks, and tries to bypass him to head into the bathroom, but he grabs her forearms and holds her in place.

“No,” he sighs mournfully, rubbing his thumbs over her sleeves. “No, don’t say that—“

“Please,” she sighs, and hangs her head, suddenly very, very tired. “I just…”

He leads her to the bed, supporting her shoulders. She sinks into the dent left by his body, her nose seeking out his scent on the pillow.

“Rest, Detective, I’ll wake you when it’s time to go to the bar, ” Lucifer says, and his voice carries over to her like an echo from beyond the Sambation. “Rest now.”

She’s asleep within seconds.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer's flirty interrogation at the bar doesn't go according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be careful (or rejoice - whatever swings your fancy), here be smut dragons:)
> 
> And angst; there's also quite a bit of angst.
> 
> Obli, I will sell my soul to you!

Chloe sits at a dark, smoky corner of the shabby bar, at a sticky table with beer stains and cigarette burns. Her bottle of  _ Goose Iceland _ is open but untouched, her eyes focused on the man sitting at the bar, but she brings it to her lips occasionally, pretending to drink. So far, she’s managed to rebuff two approaches by hopeful men, who hastened to scatter away with their tails between their legs when she barked at them that she wasn’t interested. Back at the bar, Lucifer –- ever ready to bask in the results of his magnetic attractiveness – has no such qualms; he’s revelling in the freely given attention coming at him from all sides, smiling charmingly at every awe-stricken human that chances to gaze upon him.

Chloe presses the earpiece deeper into her ear as she spies the bartender approaching her partner with a predatory look on her attractive face. She’s a natural brunette, about Chloe’s height and size, and probably in her early forties, with an air of ease and confidence about her.

“Hiya, handsome”— Chloe hears the woman’s throaty voice over the static—“what can I get you?”

“Scotch, neat,” comes the predictable reply; her partner rarely drinks anything else.

Chloe can see the interest in the woman’s eyes all the way from her corner, as she leans over the counter and into Lucifer’s space.

“Oh, love me a British man,” she leers, and Lucifer smiles cheekily. “Where are you from, sugar?”

“Sorry, darling; I’m not available,” he purrs, and the bartender’s eyes light up, accepting his excuses as a challenge. “I’m here with my partner; we’re staying at the motel,” he adds, helpingly. “She loves LA, you see, and whatever she wants – she gets.”

Chloe snorts humorlessly. If only it were true.

The bartender, who proves to be even more attractive than originally perceived when she moves into the light, scoffs and leans away from her handsome companion.

“And, what, you couldn’t find something nicer than the shithole across the road?”

Lucifer chuckles enticingly and shrugs.

“We’re on a tight budget,” he explains – and it is technically not a lie since their room is being paid for by the department, with its very limited funds.

“Saving up for the important stuff, eh?” the bartender asks, leaning in again. “I’m Kirsten, by the way.”

“Charming,” Lucifer breathes, pouring all his charisma and magnetism into the conversation. “You own this quaint establishment, Kirsten?”

“It’s my uncle’s,” she sighs, dangerously close to his face, “but I run the place, so to speak.”

He smiles and leans back a bit, much to the woman’s disappointment.

“All by your lonesome?” he asks innocently, and the bartender shakes her head.

“No, I got help,” she explains, happy to talk to Lucifer for as long as she’s able. “My siblings help me with the place.”

“Well done, partner,” Chloe breathes under her nose; so, this woman may be an accomplice to murder after all.

“And where would we be without family?” Lucifer asks with a tight smile, making Chloe’s heart clench in her chest.

“Very true,” Kirsten concurs, not detecting the bitter tone in his voice, and licks her lips suggestively. “So what is it you do, stranger?”

“I’m in show business,” Lucifer supplies flawlessly, not even losing a beat. “Play the piano, sing a bit – that sort of thing.”

Chloe exhales loudly, feeling as if they just dodged a bullet, and pretends to sip her beer. Over at the bar, Kirsten touches the lapel of Lucifer’s jacket.

“So, what’s your name, handsome?” she purrs, her fingers brushing the leather suggestively. “Or do I have to beg for it?”

Chloe stops breathing for a short second.

Lucifer doesn’t lie.

_ Lucifer doesn’t lie. _

She digs through her brain for any detail from the case in suburbia, the one for which he and Pierce, or rather, Luke and Marc, were a gay married couple. But Lucifer had never referred to himself as Luke, and Marc could just have been a shortened version of Marcus for him. The Devil doesn’t lie, even though he does skirt around the truth; but for the life of her, Chloe doesn’t know how he’ll sidestep it this time.

Back at the bar, Lucifer stills and stays quiet for a moment, stiff and unyielding in his silence. Kirsten, feeling the sudden shift in the flirting atmosphere, takes a step back from him, the impression on her face that of puzzlement.

Then, at last, Lucifer speaks.

“Sam,” he says, and his voice is suddenly raw, and haunted. “My name is Sam.”

***

Lucifer leaves the bar first, once he downs a few more drinks that he consumes alone and in relative silence after the bartender slinks away, allowing him to simmer in his juices in peace. About five minutes after that, Chloe follows.

She finds him in their room, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, still somewhat intoxicated by her proximity. He rises to his feet the moment she comes in, a haunted look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises immediately, voice hoarse. “I should have tried more, should have been more in the game—“

Chloe takes a few steps towards him; stands close enough to touch.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” she says softly, bringing her palm to his flushed cheek. “You okay?”

He shakes his head and leans into her touch, and, somewhere in her belly, warmth spreads at the trusting gesture.

“Lucifer,” she whispers, “who is Sam?”

His face crumbles, leaving him bare and shattered. He’s swaying on his feet.

“I don’t lie,” he rasps, “Chloe,  _ I don’t lie. _ ”

Her other hand comes to rest on his waist, trying to anchor him to the present, to the here and now.

“I know you don’t,” she says gently, thumb caressing the stubbled line of his jaw. “I know; so tell me, who is Sam?”

“Me,” he admits in a broken voice. “I’m Sam; or at least, I used to be.”

She doesn’t understand. As far as she knows, ‘Sam’ is not one of the Devil’s names. This entire exchange between them would have made a lot of sense a few months ago when all his eccentricity was perceived by her as delusions and metaphors, but now? Now that she knows?

“I don’t understand,” she whispers, trying desperately to find some ounce of logic in what he’s trying to tell her.

“Samael”—he chokes on the words, and his eyes are swimming with stars—“my name, before; the ‘Poison of God’, when I…brought light.”

And she understands, she  _ finally _ understands.

The ache – the one that she smothers down with murders and the scent of Trixie’s shampoo, the one that comes upon her at night like an insatiable lover – unfolds deep in her belly and claws its way up through her lungs; it spreads through her bloodstream like cancer and settles in her womb like a child to be nurtured. That ache, all for  _ him. _

She’s an idiot, a damned fool; months of coping with her thoughts and ignoring her feelings, when all she needed to do was really quite simple.

“Oh, Lucifer,” she breathes, and takes his face in her hands. “Come here.”

Rising on tiptoes, she presses her lips to his, not daring to breathe. His mouth is pliant and soft, so she kisses him again – just a quick brush, and no more – and then a third kiss, and a fourth, and by the time she rises again for a fifth, he reciprocates and crushes her to him desperately, his mouth slanting against hers in tormented urgency, and in perfect alliance.

“I want you,” she gasps against his lips, her fingers fisted in his hair, upsetting the coifed strands into curls. “I want  _ you. _ ”

His breath hitches, and his eyes flutter closed as he pulls her into a bone-crushing embrace, not uttering a single word. They stand like this for a while, until Chloe pushes away from him, and he watches her take a few steps backwards with a puzzled frown.

And there, in the dim light from the street lamp outside their windows, she reaches for the buttons on her shirt and begins to undress slowly before his eyes. The look on his face morphs into anguished reverence, and his eyes follow the movement of her fingers like a parched monk being denied a sip of sacrificial wine.

“What are you doing?” he rasps when she stands before him bare-breasted, her hands moving to the front of her jeans.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she asks, suddenly incredibly bold as she kicks off her boots and pushes her jeans and underwear down her thighs. “I thought I was pretty clear; never thought the day would come when I’d have to try and seduce  _ you. _ ”

She tries for flippant and unassuming, but the tremor in her voice, as she stands completely naked before the Devil, gives her away. She takes a step forward, and Lucifer’s arms rise unbidden to her waist as if out of pure instinct.

“Chloe—“ he croaks, and she senses that he’ll try and object again if he’s not distracted, so she rises on her tiptoes once more – and this time the climb is higher, because her heeled boots are lying discarded on the floor – and presses her entire body to his, earning herself a stifled gasp from his throat.

His clothes chafe at her sensitive skin, the buttons on his jeans cold against her pubic bone.

“I said I want you, you idiot,” she sighs softly, and her fingers rise to tug the leather jacket off his shoulders, “and I meant what I said.”

His fingers tighten on her waist, and she knows that she’s nearly there, she nearly has him – when suddenly he takes a step back, away from her, his hands flexing into fists.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to proceed, darling,” he offers with a tight smile and a pained voice, as if the physical distance between them is excruciating to him. “You see, I have nothing on me.”

She catches his meaning almost instantly, and she finds herself suddenly overwhelmed by her feelings for him.

Lucifer, who’s always ready to participate in any proffered lewd activity in a moment’s notice, who practices safe sex on an ironclad principle, who’s had more bedmates than she could possibly count – this Lucifer arrived at their can of sardines, one-bed-only hovel with absolutely no contraceptives and no presumptions.

Not because he didn’t want her, but because he thought she’d never want him.

She thinks she finally understands his reluctance to get into bed with her. Her happiness, her free will, these little things that define her and make her what she is – they are more important to him than the things that he may want and desire. Her so-called choices at the cost of his own happiness.

With surprisingly steady feet, Chloe takes a step forward, takes one of his fisted hands and brings it to her lips.

“Don’t worry about it,” she whispers and almost sighs in gratitude when she notices his eyes widen, “I got it covered.”

She does. She still has the IUD she decided to get when things with Marcus –  _ Cain _ – became serious. After all, with all the things that happened in her life since the moment of his overdue death, she never got around to taking it out.

How did that phrase about small mercies go?

Determined and unwavering, Chloe pulls at Lucifer’s hand, leading him to the bed, and he, completely stupefied and definitely outwitted, follows her in an almost religious stupor. She climbs onto the mattress and shuffles on her knees to the edge where he stands, silent and immobile. Her hands make quick work of his belt, and pull the t-shirt off over his head, revealing his toned torso, pale in the drifting light. Chloe wonders at the number of Renaissance artists who sighed and moaned at the sight of his body, as he – no doubt – modelled for them, unabashed and proud.

Lucifer is still silent and unmoving when her hands smooth the warm skin above his heart, but when her fingers dip down to unbutton his jeans, he suddenly comes to life and bends down to kiss her lips, as if only now arriving at the moment.

He nudges her over, encouraging her to lie back against the pillows, as he rests, sprawled on his side, pressed to her hip, the warmth of his body seeping into her skin. He kisses her temple and mouth and neck, as his clever fingers run over the pattern of her body; Chloe gasps against his lips when Lucifer’s thumb brushes her ribs and the underside of her breast. He smiles against her mouth and bites at her lower lip as he flattens the arch of his palm against her lower belly, the tips of his fingers brushing against the golden curls at the apex of her thighs. Her breath hitches, and she decides to reciprocate, sliding her left hand down Lucifer’s taut abdomen and into his open jeans. He almost jumps at the touch, choking on a delighted, deliciously breathless chuckle.

“ _ Detective, _ ” he moans against the column of her neck, and Chloe shivers at the feeling of his breath on her heated skin; but when her fingers slip past the band of his boxer briefs, he steadies her wrist and presses his lips to her ear. “Wait, allow me to take care of you first.”

“But—“ she whimpers, flexing her fingers around him, earning yet another sinful moan.

“Please,” he breathes and plants a kiss below her ear, and his hand glides down the slope of her belly, past the stretch marks below her navel where Trixie once grew. “Let me do this.”

Chloe nods, and her hand falls away from inside his briefs to rest on his thigh instead. Lucifer hums against her skin approvingly and leans further into her.

His fingers dip down, past her curls, to press into her, and find her almost dry. Chloe stiffens in horrified mortification. She’s not as wet as she’d like to be; not because she doesn’t want him – nothing can be farther from the truth – but because that’s just how her system operates. Always has, really. So, afraid of how Lucifer might take this entire situation, no doubt imagining this to stem from a lack of desire, she stutters and begins to apologise.

“It’s not you!” she gasps as he removes his hand; if this is how it ends between them, she may very well die of disappointment and regret. “Because I really want this,  _ really _ ! It’s just how I am—“

“Darling,” he interrupts her, and, to her great astonishment, he’s smiling softly. “Never apologise for this sort of thing; especially when this is a situation that I can remedy quite easily.”

His smile turns wicked as he brings up his middle finger to his mouth and licks it in a way that probably had women – and men, no doubt – spontaneously combust. Gauging her reaction with parted lips, he slides his wet finger down her body and into her in one fluid motion, smiling open-mouthed when she gasps and clutches at him. Soon she’s slick with his spittle, and she parts her thighs for him, throwing one of her legs over his bent knee, her blushes and modesty discarded with her boots on the floor, as he adds another finger into her. It doesn’t take very long for his wonderful hands to coax an orgasm out of her, and she climaxes with a breathless, botched version of his name on her lips.

The look on his face, when she comes to, panting and slick with sweat, can only be described as ‘reverential’.

“The sight of you coming undone,” he rasps, clinging to words as if they are failing him. “Chloe… I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

She blushes, turns her face away from him, and presses her burning cheek into the cool pillow. She’s not quite sure how to react to his words, because, even if the wording is not entirely clear, she’s pretty sure he’s just paid her a very sensual compliment.

She feels his lips on her throat and his wet fingers on her belly.

“I’ve rendered you speechless, darling.” He smiles against her skin. “Are you embarrassed? Please, don’t be.”

She squirms against his touch, and the huff of his laughter is warm on her sensitive skin.

“I-I don’t know what to say, Lucifer,” she mumbles, her entire body on fire. She’s not used to the men in her life waxing poetic over the way she looks in bed. Sure, Dan used to say she was gorgeous naked, and Marcus once grunted in her ear something filthy about how tight she was, but  _ this _ – this is praise on a whole different kind of level.

The brush of his stubble against her jaw and the touch of his lips on her cheek bring her back to the present. She turns to find him hovering over her, his eyes bright in the near-darkness.

“Say nothing,” he suggests softly and kisses her with all the intimacy and warmth of an old lover, and something inside her chest blossoms and embraces the ache in her veins.

“I want  _ you. _ ” She repeats her previously uttered words when the kiss ends, and the meaning of this phrase goes beyond the sexual nature of the moment, beyond the lust and the desire. Her fingers curl into his hair fondly, and she hopes he understands the real sentiment behind the words, now more than ever.

Lucifer doesn’t answer, but his eyes glaze over with want. He pushes himself upwards, leans on his right elbow, and, settling firmly between her thighs, shoves his boxer briefs out of the way, not even bothering to take off his jeans. The rough fabric chafes the delicate skin of Chloe’s inner thighs as he enters her with very little trouble, but it doesn’t really bother her. She finds she likes the urgency that accompanies his actions, and she gasps loudly and clutches at his shoulders at the initial contact between them. He’s larger and thicker than the previous man whose bed she shared, but the way he fits inside of her – a bit like a jigsaw puzzle, really – is very pleasant. And then he starts moving, pressed very tightly to her, his chest sliding against her sensitive skin, and the world stops.

She’s not one for being too vocal in bed, never was; she’ll give as good as she gets at the final countdown – at the money-time, when the waves crash, and she reaches her peak – but, during the act itself, she usually just keeps to silent gasps and breathless sighs. She’s not a prude or anything, just, well, a bit shy – despite her acting past. Dan used to find it endearing, back in the day when their bed was warm, and the house was full of laughter. He was more experienced than she was back then and had a bit of a virginal kink going, though he’d never admit to it, not even after all this time. So, all things considered, it comes as a surprise to her that she finds herself uttering these little pleasure noises with every movement that Lucifer makes within her; as she gasps, and exhales, and bites at the skin of his shoulder, earning a delighted hiss for her troubles. When he suddenly shifts, and she understands that he means to move away, Chloe almost whines and clutches at his forearms.

“No, don’t,” she begs, pulling him back towards her. “I want you close.”

“Oh, darling,” Lucifer huffs, and curls his arms around her middle, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulls her upwards with him until they are both sitting, pressed together chest to chest, and he’s at eye level and so deep within her that she almost wishes to embrace him and take him to her womb, closer to her heart. But then he presses a hand to the small of her back, angling her body in a perfect way towards completion, and her breath catches with the new sensation, and all other thoughts are forgotten.

Lucifer’s a force of nature – a gale untempered, or an active volcano – and she holds onto his shoulders, already coiled so tightly, almost unprepared for this out-of-this-world ride. He moves deep within her like a wave, crashing against her shores in precise assurance, and his eyes delve into hers, rendering her soul bare to the metaphorical bone.

And, out of breath already, her mouth desperately close to his in their shifting proximity, a single thought suddenly strikes her, and she asks, panting with exertion, “Can you tell if Hell has frozen over?”

He frowns at her for a moment, his fluid motions faltering, but then a flare of devious recognition ignites his eyes, and he chuckles smugly as if it didn’t take him almost two years to get here.

She trembles in his arms, that chuckle resonating deep in her innards, and suddenly he presses her harder to him, ardent in his renewed attention, his stubble rubbing against the skin of her cheek.

“Chloe,” he breathes, reverent as if in prayer, “ _ Chloe. _ ”

And struck with this uncontrollable need, she touches the mouth that pleads with her, tracing the delicate arch of his upper lip with her fingers. When he opens said mouth, and takes her fingers inside, and brushes his tongue over them, Chloe can’t help the breathless moan that escapes her throat, and she feels, rather than sees, the satisfied smile against her skin. And then, when they slip from his mouth, she drags the fingers down her body and touches herself under his concupiscent eyes, shivering with lust when he groans sinfully at the display.

This, she thinks as he kisses her ravenously and without restrains, has got to be the most erotic thing she’s ever seen.

Their rhythm changes and hastens, and he can’t take his eyes off her as they move as one. She feels herself teetering on the brink of bliss, ready to fall over the edge – the feel of Lucifer’s jeans rubbing at her bottom as she shifts in his lap only heightens all other sensations – and looks into his beautiful, fathomless eyes only to find the heartbreaking glimpse of real devotion in them; and suddenly she’s falling, and spinning out of reality, and she gasps and cries in his ear as she comes undone.

“I love you,” she breathes tightly, quite unable to stop herself. “I love you;  _ I love you. _ ”

And something in his expression changes; he takes a shuddering breath, buries his face in the crook of her neck, and tightens his arms around her, spending himself deep into her womb.

They still, breathing harshly against each other’s ears, and Chloe realises what she blurted out in the height of her passion. Colour rises in her cheeks, and her heart stops beating for a few precious seconds. Too soon, she spoke too soon.

Lucifer tightens his arms around her and falls backwards onto the bed with her. They dive to the mattress with a little “oof” squeezed out of him when Chloe lands on his chest. He’s still somewhat hard inside her, and, were she emotionally stable and not overwhelmed by the whole situation between them, she’d have probably started moving against him again to try and prolong their lovemaking.

“Alright, darling?” he asks softly, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. “You look flushed.”

The smug bastard.

She hits him on the arm playfully, and he attempts to pull off laughing lightly, but the expression on his face is not one of happiness; no, he looks sad, almost forlorn, and Chloe’s heart clenches painfully in her chest.

Does he regret their actions? Or is he spooked by what she cried in his ear in the moment of her orgasm?

She doesn’t dare ask. There are some things you just don’t inquire of a man who doesn’t lie.

“And you?” she asks instead “Are you alright?”

He spreads his arms wide on the bed in a fashion that reminds her painfully of the crucified Jesus statue in the church where they had Trixie baptised, and smiles up at her.

“Just savouring the feeling of you around me,” he sighs and closes his eyes, “for the times to come.”

Something in his voice, or, rather, the way he structures the sentence, makes her uneasy; as if he doesn’t believe that this will happen again, as if he—

“No need to savour anything”—she almost chokes on her words in the haste to get them out of her slowly closing throat—“you and I, we’re—“

“Darling,” he interrupts her, and raises his head to plant a kiss on her forehead. “Being with you was a religious experience, if you pardon my French.”

She can’t help herself; she laughs. And as some quite undignified guffaws leave her body, and Lucifer’s arms lace and tighten around her, she understands that he achieved what he wanted. He distracted her; enough for her to forgo the subject of their hazy future.

They lie embraced for a few additional minutes until Chloe can no longer ignore her body’s needs and condition, and she squirms in his arms.

“I have to get up,” she explains apologetically at his inquisitive look, and motions with her head in the direction of the bathroom, “but you’ll stay here, in bed – right?”

Lucifer smiles softly at her and nods.

“Whatever you want, Chloe.”

_ I want you, _ she thinks, but she doesn’t say it. She’s tired of this emotional rollercoaster – fatigued, really – and she wants to fall under the covers and wrap herself in him and wake up tomorrow to a day when they are both happy and in love. But she’d settle for just having him in bed with her tonight. And when she emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, she’s happy to find him propped against the pillows, his jeans lying on the back of the chair. He wraps his arms around her as she slips into bed, and kisses her lips softly, lingering there for a short while.

“Sleep, Chloe,” he whispers in her ear, and she sighs tiredly against his chest.

She’s lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of his beating heart.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after brings with it some unsettling news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obli, you deserve all the flowers :)

A buzzing sound rouses Chloe from sleep, bursting into her dream and yanking her out of it quite unceremoniously. It’s a nice dream, full of kisses in the late afternoon sun, the lovely feel of cool, clean sheets against her skin, Trixie’s laughter in the next room, and the sweet scent of pancakes she can’t quite shake off even after she’s no longer dreaming. The source of the buzzing is an incoming call. She reaches out a hand towards the nightstand and fumbles for her phone. The alarm clock reads 5:37 a.m.; the caller is Dan.

“Hello, hello?” she mutters breathlessly into the phone, her heart beating erratically at being roused so suddenly. “Dan? What is it? Is Trixie okay?”

“Chlo, hi!” she hears his hurried reply on the other end of the line. “Yes, she’s fine, she’s with your mother – this is about the case; there’s been another murder..”

Beside her, Lucifer stirs in bed, sighing deeply, but doesn’t wake; she turns to the nightstand and cups her palm to her mouth.

“Another murder?” She’s suddenly alert, her cop instincts kicking in. “When?”

“Sometime last night,” Dan mutters over the phone. She hears him getting ready in the background; he must have just gotten the call from dispatch. “You and Lucifer didn’t notice anything strange yesterday, did you?”

No, they most certainly did not, because they were otherwise occupied. With each other.

Guilt eats away at Chloe’s stomach, and she shifts uneasily in her bed of sin.

“Um, no, no.” She tries to sound nonchalant, shaking her head vehemently, even though her ex-husband can’t see the gesture over the phone. “Nothing strange here.”

“Right,” Dan answers, and if he suspects her in any way, he doesn’t let it show in his voice. “Ella and I are heading over to the crime scene now; we’ll come to see you afterwards, make it look like an interview. Don’t come out.”

“Got it,” she says, nodding to herself; Dan’s got the right idea. “See you soon, then.”

“Bye, Chlo,” he mutters and hangs up. The line goes dead.

She takes a deep breath and places the phone back on the nightstand, already deep in thought.

Was it her fault that the killer acted again, while she was busy making love to the Devil? Would she have been able to prevent this new murder had the evening ended in a different way? Would she have arrested the murderer then and there, if Lucifer had not been so emotionally vulnerable with her last night?

No; what she told Dan was the truth. There was nothing strange or sinister that she’d missed at the bar. Whatever happened that led to the unfortunate murder transpired after she and her diabolical partner left the premises.

_ And Speaking of the Devil— _

She turns to look at the mostly naked, sleeping man in her bed; he rests on his stomach, with his face turned towards her, his cheek adorably smashed into the pillow. His hair is wonderfully mussed – by sleep and by her hands – and she blushes deeply at the recollection of her fingers grasping tightly at his locks in the moment of climax.

It’s hard to believe, seeing her partner now – asleep and looking almost cherub-like – that he’s that dreaded being from the Scriptures, the horrid monster from all the old wives’ tales; the great Deceiver, the Dark Lord, the instigator of Sin.

But the truth is much more complicated than that.

Yes, she’s currently sharing her bed with  _ The _ Devil, who is definitely the root of all temptation, can be quite chaotic at times, and has this cruel little streak hiding somewhere behind his eyes. But he is also the fallen archangel who comes to play monopoly with her and her daughter; who died for her twice, and threw her a prom just because she was feeling regretful that she’d missed hers back in the day. A man who can be kind when he wants to be, and very generous—

And the way he looked at her last night – with awe in his timeless eyes; this ageless being that wove the sun and stars into the fabric of the heavens with a golden thread made of light.

She can’t help it, she loves him; loves him enough to fall with him, if he ever asked her to, even though she knows that he never will.

Chloe bends to move some strands of loose hair away from his forehead and presses her lips to his left shoulder. He’s very hot, almost humanly feverish; she felt it last night as she burned for him – must be the devil thing.

Lucifer stirs awake under her hand, and his eyes flutter open; he blinks owlishly in the semi-dark room.

“Hey, you,” she whispers softly, planting another kiss on his shoulder and smoothing a hand over his abdomen. “Sleep okay?”

He doesn’t answer straight away but flings his arm to the nightstand on his side of the bed, where it gropes around for his phone. He brings the device to his face, frowning and blinking at the screen.

“So bloody early,” he mutters darkly, and Chloe smiles at the oozing grumpiness.

“Yes, sorry… Dan called,” she explains, running her hand over his chest while he checks his messages. “There’s been another murder.”

This gets his undivided attention.

He puts away the phone and turns to her, frowning at the news.

“Blimey, has there? When?”

Chloe nods and leans forward to kiss the spot above his heart; he shivers and flinches a little at the contact. She’s not sure what to feel at this reaction. “Sometime last night, after we left.”

“Fuck,” he mutters darkly, and she starts, not used to him using this particular swear word. “So what now?”

He’s distant, almost clinical; Chloe feels a twinge of fear deep down in the bottom of her stomach.

“Well, now we get up and dress for the day,” she answers, managing quite nicely to keep the tremor out of her voice, and moves away from him, intent on getting up; she’s suddenly very conscious of her nakedness. “Dan and Ella are on their way; they will come over and make it look like they’re interviewing us. Dan asked that we stay indoors until they arrive.”

She rises from the bed, her back turned to him, and feels her cheeks heating up with the great burden of utter mortification. Has all this been a mistake? It didn’t feel like one last night…

He grabs her hand suddenly, and she’s forced to turn back to him, the blanket pressed tightly to her chest in a failed attempt to preserve her modesty.

The look he gives her – it is filled with many things, but detachment is certainly not one of them, and it almost looks as if he’s pleading with her, as he appears to be struggling to speak. She waits with bated breath for him to say something –  _ do _ something – but he only sighs mournfully, closes his eyes, and releases her arm, letting it fall listlessly to her side.

“Mind if I pop into the shower first?” he asks quietly, not looking at her, and it is clearly not what he meant to say, but there you have it. “These curls take time to tame, Detective.”

“Sure, go ahead,” she says flatly and watches as he disappears behind the bathroom door.

_ So, back to ‘Detective’, are we? _

When last night, tight in his embrace, it was nothing but  _ ‘Chloe’ _ uttered in her ear in sheer abandonment and devotion.

She doesn’t buy it; doesn’t believe that this behaviour stems from detachment, or from satisfying a long-lived urge that, having been finally fulfilled, is no longer deemed interesting. It’s the ‘vulnerability’ thing all over again; he’s overwhelmed, his brain in sensory overload, and he doesn’t know how to channel the feelings properly.

Chloe wishes Linda were here; she could sure use some professional help just about now.

The ache comes back with a vengeance, like a jilted lover, and she feels her eyes water; she understands what he’s doing, with a painfully sober clarity. He’s distancing himself, preparing himself for rejection, despite her blurted,  _ honest _ professions of love last night. With a pang of despair – the ache now moving in her bones like a ravenous worm – she wonders how many people declared their undying love for him right after he’d given them the best orgasm of their lives.

That he would see her like this; that he would think that  _ she _ —

She’s not angry, or disappointed – not at him, at any rate – she’s just sad; it’s that feeling of grief all over again, that threatens to resurface and drown her under a wave of misery. The ache for him hums in agreement, turns into a malignant tumour, and invades all the cells in her body like a swarm of termites.

She moves almost blindly across the tiny room, on some form of autopilot – pouring the overnight water back into the coffee maker with some ‘fresh’ coffee, dressing up, picking up her discarded clothes off the floor. It’s all very clinical, and robotic – she’s not present, not really – and she barely even flinches as she stuffs her used underpants and bra into her laundry bag. By the time Lucifer’s done and out of the shower, Chloe is dressed and getting coffee, and when she feels him behind her back – close, but unapproachable – she stiffens and stills, and waits for the inevitable.

“Chloe—“ he mutters, and his voice is soft in the sudden silence. She can feel his hand hovering over her arm as if he is battling with himself to decide whether to touch her or not; and suddenly, it becomes all too much for her, too stifling – this limping dance around each other, the constant tripping on bloody toes - and she’s struggling to breathe. She turns around abruptly, and Lucifer almost jumps back in surprise at the sudden movement.

“Help yourself to coffee,” Chloe says, not looking up at him, “I’m going to freshen up.”

She disappears into the bathroom, locking the door behind her, and slides down to the floor. She doesn’t emerge until she hears the positive, excited tones of Ella’s voice filling the wretched, adjacent room.

***

“Chlo, there you are!” Ella greets her enthusiastically, and shoves a deliciously smelling paper bag into her unresisting hands. “Sorry to wake you up so early, but I hope this makes up for it!”

Chloe opens the proffered container and smiles softly at the lemon bars inside.

“You shouldn’t have, Ella; thank you!”

“Ah, it’s nothing!” The other woman waves her hand in dismissal, but her cheeks are blushing attractively with pleasure at the offered gratitude. “There’s this nice bakery not too far from my apartment, and I figured you guys would probably be hungry.”

“Right as always, my dear Miss Lopez,” Lucifer compliments the tiny woman and toasts her with his cup of coffee; Ella’s cheeks grow redder as her smile grows wider, and the pit in Chloe’s stomach yawns and demands tribute. Dan looks at the display between the three of them and frowns.

“If we’re all done kissing up to Ella, there’s an active case to solve.” He scowls at Lucifer, who just shrugs and leans against the wall with well-practised ease.

“Right,” Ella drawls, her eyes narrowing at the charged atmosphere between the two men, and reaches for her camera. “So, our vic was found at the same place as the previous ones, same MO; he’s 38, goes – well,  _ went _ – by the name of Greg Forman. From what we gathered, he was staying two doors down to your left and was in town for a shoe salesmen conference. Anybody else getting those ‘Married with Children’ vibes?” She chuckles, lifting her head from the crime scene photos; the faces staring back at her blink morosely. “No?” Tough crowd…”

Chloe sighs, already emotionally spent for the day; which is highly inconvenient, considering it’s only seven a.m. As if being on the wildest sentimental ride of her life isn’t enough, the universe – or rather, her partner’s  _ father _ – decides to throw another grisly murder in her way. And to top it all, Lucifer – the one who needs to have her back, the one she must rely on – is distant, and frosty, and probably as emotionally drained as she is; perhaps even more, given that he doesn’t even have that many feelings to begin with.

_ No, that’s not fair, _ she chides herself, sinking into the only chair in the room, and mutely motions to Dan and Ella to take the edge of the bed; he has feelings –  _ of course, _ he has feelings – he’s just not as well acquainted with them as humanity is.

Ella continues to chatter on about the murder, and Chloe lets her mind wander unintentionally. She sneaks a peek at the man who spent half the night worshipping her like a deity (and isn’t  _ that _ ironic). He’s leaning against the wall in his fitted jeans and his leather jacket, looking like a movie star, or a top model; a vision in black, a picture of indifference with poisonous coffee in hand. He doesn’t spare a glance at her, doesn’t share a sultry stare with hidden meaning; doesn’t caress her with his heated eyes as he recalls their night together.

A few hours ago, he was inside of her – as intimately close to her soul as she can offer – but now he stands miles away from her, leaning against the wall in fake nonchalance.

She resurfaces again to what looks like a pissed-off pissing contest, bordering on a blown-out-of-proportions-fight between her partner and her ex-husband. Dan is scowling, face mad with fury, and Lucifer – still lounging like he owns the wall – is smirking a little cruelly, his eyes nearly burning with hellfire.

“Stop it, you two,” she says suddenly, and her voice is a little frail even to her ears, but it serves the purpose. Two pairs of concerned eyes turn to regard her with ill-disguised guilt. Good, let them be ashamed of…whatever they were fighting about; she doesn’t even want to know.

“Now isn’t the time for this, boys,” she adds and turns to Ella, who’s still holding her camera in her hands. “Time of death?”

Ella frowns at her, looking slightly worried. She sneaks a glance at Lucifer, who promptly looks away, suddenly very interested in some unidentified stains on the carpet.

“Chlo, you okay?” she asks quietly. “I already mentioned it, like, ten minutes ago…”

“Sorry/” Chloe smiles faintly, feeling wretched; this – whatever this is – is starting to affect her work, and she simply can’t allow it to happen. “I just drifted away for a second…or two; can you repeat the TOD for me?”

“Between two and four a.m.,” the forensic scientist answers, the concerned look still very vivid on her face. “Seriously, though, you okay, girl?”

“I’m fine,” Chloe says, smiling; she can’t help it if it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just a little confined, I guess.”

“How  _ do _ you manage to fit in here?” Dan asks suddenly, still scowling, a thoroughly dissatisfied look on his face. “Only one bed, I see...”

Chloe’s quite aware of what he’s insinuating and doesn’t really care for his tone or his opinion on the matter. From the corner of her eye, she notices Lucifer straightening up, ready to pick up the previously discarded fight with a vengeance.

“Lucifer’s sleeping on the chair, not that it’s any of your business, Dan,” she mutters hastily before her partner can do some real damage; she’s not certain what makes her feel guiltier, the chastised look on her ex’s face, or the wounded one on the face of the man she loves.

“Look at you, Luce,” Ella cries suddenly in fake joviality, clearly thinking she’s coming to the rescue, bless her heart, “being the proper British gentleman!”

Chloe sinks further into her chair in what she hopes is well-disguised despair. What a nightmare. Maybe sometime during the night she’s died and gone to Hell, and this is her hell loop? Perhaps this is the price of loving the Devil, both physically and emotionally? If this is indeed the case, Hell must be  _ really _ crowded.

“Whatever,” Dan mutters, pulling her out of her morose musings about the afterlife and the fate of her immortal soul. “I want you two to go to lunch together; you are a couple, after all.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lucifer asks, finally detaching himself from the wall. “What has that got to do with anything?”

And something in the centre of her chest twists and cracks, because this argument – of them being a fake couple that simply  _ has  _ to go to lunch together – was made by Lucifer himself only yesterday; it didn’t seem to bother him one bit then, before they –  _ before. _

Dan rolls his eyes in annoyance, and Lucifer turns red in the face. Ella sneaks a worried glance in Chloe’s direction.

“Well, it’s a bit odd that you two checked in as a couple, but only you are seen out and about, Lucifer,” Dan explains slowly, as if talking to a five-year-old. He’s clearly angry, and not a fan of this arrangement, but his frustration and irritation do not stem from jealousy – at least not entirely. He still clearly blames her partner for Charlotte’s death, not wishing to acknowledge that he’s directing his rage towards the wrong person; and Lucifer, being Lucifer, doesn’t deflect this wrath in any way, no doubt feeling the heavy guilt for the lawyer’s death himself.

“Dan’s right,” Chloe sighs, pressing her fingers to her eyes; she seems to be developing quite an epic headache. “It does look strange.”

“And later,” her ex-husband supplies, emboldened by her support, “I want you to head to the bar and talk to the bartender and tell her you’re leaving tomorrow; maybe the killer will hear and get antsy to take you out. That way we may just finally catch him, or her.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Lucifer mutters under his nose, and Dan gears up for another round, and the headache does great battle in Chloe’s skull.

“Shut up, both of you!” she cries suddenly, and opens her eyes to see three sets of startled eyes staring at her like she’s grown a second head, “Just –  _ shut up. _ Dan, Ella; anything else? If not, I think we’ll better be done here; this ‘interview’ is taking too much time already.”

Ella jumps to her feet and drags a bewildered Dan upwards with her.

“Chloe’s right, peeps,” she agrees urgently, shoving the still flabbergasted man towards the door; Lucifer is following their exit with a bemused expression on his face. “Enjoy lunch, you love birds, uh– bye!”

The door slams behind the two and both Lucifer and Chloe jump a little at the loud  _ thud _ . A pregnant silence ensues in which Chloe vaguely considers shooting herself with her handgun just to get any sort of a reaction out of her partner when the man in question turns to her with a wary look.

And just like that, Chloe has had enough of emotionally-constipated men. At least for the moment.

“Detective...“ he begins tentatively, but she raises her palm up to stop him.

“Wake me up before lunch,” she orders and, not waiting for his response, crawls into the bed that still smells like him; like  _ them. _

He’s silent for a few moments, and then she hears him shuffling his feet, and the creak of the wretched chair as it accepts Lucifer’s weight.

“Alright,” he agrees, silently, and he sounds just as tired and just as pained as she is. “Alright.”

Remorse washes over her as she closes her eyes, and the ache rears its anguished head in her chest and cries her a river. She doesn’t sleep, but she doesn’t open her eyes either, instead opting for lying still in a silent, gloomy room, with the man for whom she aches sitting dejectedly in the corner.

***

The diner is nothing fancy – not by a long shot – but the atmosphere is homely, and the food is deep fried and comforting.

They sit face to face, looking nothing but happy and in love to the rest of the world; a basket of fries sitting between them on the table. Lucifer holds her hand, and her arm is getting cold at the spot of skin that is pressed to her cutlery, but she doesn’t dare move her appendage away. The atmosphere between them is tense as it is, and the forced-upon outing is not helping matters.

“Here you go, cuties!” The cooing waitress arrives at the table with their drinks, looking starry-eyed and dazzled. “It’s so nice to see a couple so much in love; enjoy yourselves, now!”

And, as Lucifer smiles charmingly at the retreating woman, Chloe can’t take this charade and the tension that accompanies it any more.

“Do you regret last night?” she blurts out, removing her hand from his grasp and dropping it to her lap, where it joins her other hand in nervous fidgeting. The look on Lucifer’s face shifts from staggered to stricken in an instant.

_ “Never,” _ he says with such vehemence that it takes Chloe completely off guard, but before she has a chance to reply, his countenance changes and the look in his eyes freezes her innards. “But I rather think you do – or will, at any rate.”

So  _ that’s _ what it is; she’s had a feeling it was. The ache grows in her womb like a child conceived of her and him, and her eyes fill with tears.

“I—“ she tries, her voice catching in her throat, and she shakes her head hopelessly. “I would never…”

He only regards her with that soft, sad smile that he seems to reserve only for her, and the tears finally take their suicide jump down the slopes of her cheeks.

“I’m abominably good in bed, darling,” he says softly, reaching out to brush away her tears with his thumb. “But I  _ am _ the Devil, and nobody wants to introduce the Devil to their mother. Don’t cry, Chloe, please,” he adds, his brow creasing in a way that makes him look almost tragically beautiful.” Good Old Mephistopheles doesn’t deserve your tears.”

She shakes her head again, quite unable to speak, and he drops his hand from her face. The corners of his lips lift slightly as if the blow he’s just landed will go down more smoothly with a quivering, half-hearted smile.

They sit wretchedly in utter silence, while the diner around them continues to bustle with activity and mayhem. A crying child shrieks at his mother’s insistence that he cannot possibly have more cake, a group of teenagers at the corner booth exchange excited opinions about an upcoming homecoming dance, a waitress drops a tray full of empty glasses to the floor. Lucifer looks at her wearily, resolved in his belief that he could never be worthy of true affection.

Chloe stares out of the window and wishes for rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everybody!
> 
> I'll be back with the remaining two chapters in 2019:)


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer and Chloe go back to the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my darlings!  
> I'm sorry that this update comes a bit later than planned. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Just one chapter left...
> 
> Obli, you deserve a medal!

“Look who’s back!”

Chloe winces at the shrill, excited tone the bartender –  _ Kirsten _ – uses when she notices the familiar figure of ‘Sam’ gracing her greasy bar again. “You seemed to disappear pretty suddenly yesterday,” she adds, pouting prettily and polishing a glass with a dirty, checkered towel. Back at her stained table, Chloe rolls her eyes over her untouched beer; man, the wretched woman is laying it on pretty thick.

“I was not myself last night,” comes her partner’s apologetic reply over the earpiece. “I apologise.”

The attractive woman places the now thoroughly polished glass on the bar and shrugs, smirking fetchingly.

“No problem,” she says and then leans into Lucifer’s personal space, as if about to share a particularly juice secret with him. “You looked like you had some inner demons you needed to exorcise.”

He laughs, and his laughter is clear, and deep, with just a tang of bitterness underlining it like comfortable bedding – and Chloe doesn’t even need the earpiece to hear it, because the richness of its timbre carries across the filthy bar and goes straight for her chest.

“A very apt description, darling,” she hears his amused reply, and sees the flush of delight and satisfaction on the bartender’s face, even at this distance and in the poor lighting of the bar. The woman clears her throat and makes a show of looking around the place.

“So, where is that famous partner of yours, eh?” she asks, clearly angling for Lucifer’s physical attentions. “Where are you hiding her?”

Lucifer stretches, and entwines his fingers behind his head; Kirsten’s eyes roam over his body shamelessly, clearly appreciating what’s on display.

“This is not her scene,” he explains effortlessly, “and things are a bit strained between us at the moment.”

Under her dark blanket of sticky disguise and greasiness, Chloe’s breath hitches and stutters, and she feels like she’s just gotten socked in the stomach with an iron bat. Lucifer’s words leave her bleeding internally, scraping at her insides and twisting her guts into knots, but the bartender takes them as an invitation and leans her elbows on the bar, now almost a breath away from Lucifer’s lips.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” she laments unconvincingly, and Chloe can hear the quiet chuckle that escapes her partner’s lips at the poor display of sympathy. “By the way, what does your partner do, you never said…?”

Chloe pales, nearly dropping the bottle of beer she’s just brought to her lips, but Lucifer only clears his throat and shrugs easily with both shoulders.

“We are in the same line of work,” he says smoothly. “She tried acting once.”

Chloe breathes out a sigh of relief. Both facts are, of course, true. It can be claimed that they both work for law enforcement, and she did try and tread over the acting path; the two facts are unconnected, of course, but the bartender doesn’t know it. Lucifer’s not lying – never  _ that  _ – he’s just dancing rather gracefully around the truth.

“Fascinating,” Kirsten purrs seductively, and her eyes trail Lucifer’s lips hungrily. “Now, what can I get you, handsome; the same as yesterday?”

Chloe rolls her eyes again and seethes quietly;  _ of course, _ she remembered his drinking order.

“Please,” he confirms charmingly and leans in, nearly brushing his nose against Kirsten’s, “but only one drink tonight, darling; I’m leaving first thing – got to keep a clear head.”

Something in the bartender’s countenance changes, and she stills. Chloe frowns and leans on the table to try and better assess the situation; she tries to ignore the slightly sickening way her jacket sticks to the wood.

“You’re leaving…?” the woman asks quietly, almost too quietly for Chloe to hear; Lucifer hums in affirmation.

“Well, that’s a real shame,” the bartender continues in that strange, soft voice, and reaches blindly for the glasses stored just below the counter. “We rarely get such strapping men such as yourself, Sam; excuse me a minute, I’ll be right back with your scotch.”

She turns from him to the wall of drinks behind her, and starts pouring the liquor into the glass, but then her attention is distracted by a different customer, and Lucifer’s order is left forgotten behind the bar.

“Weird reaction,” he mutters into the tiny microphone attached to the inside of his t-shirt. “She seemed beyond distracted by my news; that’s not the response I usually get.”

Chloe hums and nods for his benefit when she sees him darting a glance in her direction to gauge her reaction to his words. Meanwhile, the bartender, now a little more composed, returns with his drink and places it before him with a tight smile.

“Here’s your drink, sugar; on the house, so you remember us kindly,” she says and winks at him.

“Thanks, darling,” Lucifer answers, dialling up the charm and taking a long sip from his glass. “That’s fiendishly kind of you.”

“Think nothing of it,” the woman laughs lightly, her eyes following the movement of his throat as he drinks. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, handsome; some needy customer demands his beer. I’ll be back soon.”

She disappears again to tend to some man who sits a few chairs to the right of Lucifer, then, a group of four women walks in, all asking for glasses of wine; after that, a couple of barely legal boys at a large table near the entrance are hollering for tequila shots. Kirsten motions for a younger looking woman at the back of the bar to join her – probably the sister, Chloe muses – as the evening rush, or what passes for an evening rush at a place like this, overtakes the shady establishment.

It takes Kirsten twenty minutes to return to Lucifer, who’s sitting rather quietly, nursing his empty glass.

“Now, I see your glass is empty, handsome,” she says, taking the tumbler from Lucifer’s unresisting fingers. Chloe’s heart starts thudding wildly in her chest – something is wrong. “Are you sure I can’t offer you anything else?”

“No…must...tom-tomorrow.” He slurs his words, and turns his head – or at least attempts to – in Chloe’s direction, a look of mild panic on his face; something is  _ definitely _ wrong. Chloe has to physically grab her chair to stop herself from leaping to his rescue. If she fucks this up now, they will lose the killer for good.

“Aw, sugar,” the bartender coos at her incapacitated patron, and comes from behind the bar to place a hand on Lucifer’s back, motioning with her free arm to get her sister’s attention. “You were not such a lightweight yesterday! Let’s get you outside for a breather, yes? Jenny, man the fort; I’ll be back in a few!”

She pushes the semi-unresponsive Lucifer off the stool and into her arms, where she, pretending to support him, half-leads half-drags him to the back of the bar.

Chloe’s breath comes out in short pants, her heart alternating between beating wildly and stopping altogether; she feels sick to her stomach, every nerve in her body telling her to draw her gun and run out of the back to save Lucifer. But she knows –  _ she knows _ – that if she stands too fast, moves too aggressively, she might endanger the whole operation. Slowly, she rises to her feet and makes her way blindly towards the bar, desperate, unspoken pleas pressing wildly on her aching lungs –  _ please, God, please God, please, _ please,  _ please God; don’t let him die, don’t let him die! I’ll do anything, anything you want, just let me get there in time! Please, God _ —

“Excuse me,” she calls for the sister – Jenny – when she reaches the bar, and her voice is a little too loud but surprisingly steady, “where are the restrooms?”

“Behind back,” the girl answers uninterestedly, not even looking up from her task of refilling the ice chest.

“Thank you,” Chloe mutters mechanically and makes her way back with stable, hasty steps.

When she gets to the back door, she reaches for the gun she stored in her boot before leaving the motel and slinks outside silently, creeping behind two large dumpsters that smell like they’ve not been emptied for quite some time. Chloe crouches as silently as she can, her back sliding along one of the bulky, smelly green monsters, and she tries hard not to gag; tomorrow, when they’re all safe and sound, she’ll send the jacket to the cleaners, or, better yet – burn it. Taking a deep, steady breath, her eyes watering at the pungent smell of decaying food, she creeps closer to the edge, and peeks around, trying to locate Lucifer and Kirsten.

They’re standing to the left of the containers, and as Chloe steals closer on soft, practised feet, she can see that ‘standing’ is rather a strong description; Lucifer is slumped against the wall, held only by the rope that Kirsten holds to his neck almost lovingly, and by the knee she stuffed between his spread thighs. She’s wearing gloves – no doubt she managed to tug them on in the time it took Chloe to get there – and she’s breathing rather heavily in Lucifer’s face.

“God, you’re beautiful,” she practically moans, tightening the rope a little, making him choke and gasp. “I would have fucked you ten ways to Sunday before killing you, but I’m short on time; sorry, handsome.”

With a violent jerk, Chloe understands that Kirsten’s about to remove her knee and that this will likely be the end of Lucifer if she doesn’t act now. Taking another deep breath, she rises from her crouch slowly, her stomach in knots, and rounds on the pair that almost looks like two lovers engaged in an intimate act. The faint noise makes Kirsten stagger a little, loosening her grip on the rope around Lucifer’s neck, before turning around. Lucifer slides down the wall and vomits.

“LAPD!” Chloe cries, jumping from behind the trash containers and levelling her sidearm to point at the bartender. “Drop the rope and step away from this man!”

Kirsten, clearly startled, and not expecting a police officer to jump up behind her, takes a step back, loses her footing, and falls backwards, conveniently hitting her head against the edge of the wall and losing consciousness. Without too much thought, Chloe rushes to the woman, checks her pulse, and turns her over. There’s some blood where Kirsten hit her head, but it doesn’t look too serious; she’ll definitely live. Thanking God – out of habit – for making it in time, and for what she can’t help but suspect was a little more than convenient bump on the head, she cuffs the dreadful bitch and leaves her lying with her face on the concrete. Satisfied that the bartender is not going anywhere anytime soon, Chloe rises shakily to her feet and stumbles over to the slumped figure of her partner.

“Lucifer!” she cries, falling to her knees before him, and grabs his face gently with both her hands; he’s breathing, albeit raggedly, and his eyes are closed. “Lucifer! Oh God;  _ oh God!” _

He blinks sluggishly and tries to focus on the sound of her voice.

“No…” he tries, taking a few very needed gulps of air. “No…need…to bring my….my father…in-into…this…’tective.”

Chloe can’t help it; she starts sobbing in earnest rather unattractively, with snot running down her nose, and her mascara smearing her cheeks, but she doesn’t give a damn; he’s alive –  _ he’s alive _ – and he’s attempting to joke.

She fumbles for her phone, dials dispatch with shaking fingers.

“This is Detective Decker,” she sobs into the phone, with a quivering voice, not caring what her fellow officers might think of her nervous state, “requesting back-up….”

Lucifer is breathing more freely now, and his speech is less slurred, but his eyes are only half-open, and he cannot really move yet. Kirsten begins to stir on the floor but doesn’t regain consciousness; Chloe hopes it stays this way until help arrives. She clasps Lucifer’s hands in her own and brings them to her lips, kissing his unnaturally cool fingers almost wildly.

He’s struggling to open his eyes fully as he tries to focus on her face.

“I’m s-sorry,” he rasps, and tries to squeeze her fingers when she starts shaking her head. “I’m s-sorry I’ve m-made…such…a….c-cock-up…of things, d-darling”— he takes a deep breath—“b-but I t-think…I’m…a-arse over t-tip…in love…with y-you.”

Two things happen at once: Chloe throws herself at the Devil, crying in relief and mental exhaustion, and Kirsten groans and claws her way back to semi-consciousness.

“You idiot,” Chloe cries in Lucifer’s ear and kisses every inch of his clammy face, not caring that they now have a murderous, but thankfully still quite dazed, audience. “You wonderful idiot!”

“Is-is this…t-the standard…reaction...t-to a love…confession?” he croaks, his fingers attempting some tapping on her thigh. “The…insults? S-should I h-have called you...a...daft cow…last night?”

Chloe barks with astonished laughter and buries her face in the crook of his neck, her nails digging into the material of his jacket. She still can’t believe that he’s alive, breathing rather shallowly into her hair, and attempting to jest even though he must be feeling very awful at the moment.

“Only if you’d have called me a prize-winning, daft cow,” she sighs breathlessly into his neck, and he shivers with something resembling a chuckle, the pressure of his fingers on her thigh now a bit more insistent.

Five minutes later, Dan, Ella and four uni’s find them in the alley, one groaning murderer with her face mushed into the concrete, drool pooling at the side of her mouth, and two huddled partners, slumped against a badly scrubbed wall. Dan rushes to Chloe and Lucifer, a look of sheer panic on his face, while Ella and one of the uni’s crouch next to the slowly resurfacing Kirsten.

“Chlo, oh my God! Chlo, are you two okay?” Dan cries, shaking her by the shoulder, trying to assess the damage done to her. “Dispatch said you sounded almost hysterical!”

Chloe nods, holding Lucifer’s face to her chest/ “I’m fine, but Lucifer is drugged. She was choking him, Dan; I barely made it in time!”

“But you did,” her ex-husband says kindly, separating her from Lucifer, and helping the Devil lean back and rest his head against the wall. “You did real good, Chlo; and you,” he adds, rounding on Lucifer, holding him up by the shoulder, “you…really came through, man…”

Lucifer blinks and focuses on Dan, finally realising that the other man is present too, and motions for him to come a bit closer.

“Daniel,” he rasps, and Dan leans in so that Lucifer doesn’t strain himself too much trying to speak. “I-I must tell you…something…about C-Charlotte— I know…you…blame me; I blame myself…too—”

“Hey, it’s okay, man,” Dan hurries to say, clearly mortified by the direction this conversation is taking, his eyes suspiciously bright. “Don’t worry about it—”

“And…you...blame y-yourself, too,” Lucifer continues louder, waving his hand around to try and point at the other man. Chloe catches the flailing hand and presses it to her chest; if Dan notices the gesture of intimacy, he doesn’t mention it. “You’re a…good man, Daniel, deep inside…don’t— Don’t live…with guilt… It…festers in y-your stomach…and damns…you— No guilt, Daniel…”

Dan clears his throat and nods, looking away for a brief moment. Behind them, Ella and the uni are helping the staggering Kirsten into a police car, where an EMT stands waiting.

“We’ve got an ambulance here,” Dan mutters, still unable to look Lucifer in the eye. “Let’s get you two to the hospital.”

“No,” Chloe says hurriedly, making her ex-husband finally look up and frown at her. “I mean, Lucifer is much better,” she amends quickly, “he just needs to sleep this off; I’ll be really grateful if you just help me get him across the road to the room, where he can rest.” At the look of sceptical disbelief on Dan’s face, she adds, “Don’t worry, he didn’t drink much; he’ll be right as rain in a few hours.”

Lucifer grunts in support of this statement, but Dan looks thoroughly unconvinced; he squares his shoulders in that universal male gesture that means that he’s preparing for a stubborn argument which he intends to win.

“No chance in hell, Chlo,” he insists, shaking his head persistently. “We don’t know what’s in Lucifer’s system; he could keel over and die in a few hours if he’s not treated, for all we know!”

“H-highly...unlikely, Daniel,” the Devil in question answers, screwing his eyes shut, no doubt feeling nauseated again, if one is to judge by the greenish tint to his pale face. “I’m not…likely…to kick t-the…bucket, e-even with…present company…included.”

“Please, Dan,” Chloe urges, rushing to take the focus off Lucifer’s ‘crazy talk’, “trust me on this, just— Help me get him to the motel,  _ please.” _

Dan narrows his eyes rather suspiciously at the two partners, looking as if he may still try and press his point, but the beseeching look on his ex-wife’s face makes him give up the argument.

“Okay, Chlo,” he sighs, clearly thinking this a very bad idea, but wisely deciding to pick his battles. “Let’s get him up.”

It turns out that dragging a tall, rather muscular, drugged Devil to his feet is no easy task, even if you have the helping hand of a well-built man at your disposal. Grunting with effort and slightly pressed down by the weight of Lucifer’s arm, Chloe wonders how Kirsten managed to drag her victims out of the bar; surely, she isn’t stronger than two police officers?

The image of a helpless Lucifer supported by the murderous bartender springs to Chloe’s mind, and she shudders; maybe it was easier for Kirsten because she didn’t pick her victims off the floor, maybe—

“Alright, darling?” Lucifer mutters from somewhere above her and nips the line of her morbid thoughts in the bud; he must have felt her shiver against his ribs. Chloe looks up and smooths her right palm over his chest; on Lucifer’s other side, Dan swiftly looks away.

“I’m fine,” she says and manages a small smile. “You?”

“B-been better,” Lucifer answers, and the smile he bestows in return is almost steady, if a little lopsided. “Remind…me….to n-never…take these…drugs  _ again.” _

She laughs heartily and even Dan chuckles, shaking his head.

“Man, you’re something else,” he mutters almost affectionately, and Lucifer hums in agreement, scoffing softly.

They wobble and sway to Dan’s car, a softly grunting, shaking, mobile heap of confused limbs; Ella looks up from her task of processing and bagging a swab of Kirsten’s drool and gawks at the strange picture the trio makes.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she calls out to them as they shuffle past her. “Lucifer needs the hospital!”

“He’ll be fine!” Chloe cries, waving to the bemused looking forensic scientist as they reach the car, and Lucifer leans heavily against it. “He just needs to rest; see you tomorrow, Ella!”

Ignoring the bewildered non-verbal inquiring noises her friend makes, Chloe focuses on helping Lucifer into the back of Dan’s car. Once she’s certain that he’s somewhat comfortable –or, at least, not in danger of falling out of it once it starts moving – she slides in after him.

“You’re not coming in tomorrow, Chloe,” her ex-husband mutters, when he takes his place at the wheel and looks at her sternly in the rearview mirror. “You two will take a few days off.”

“Lucifer will be fine tomorrow, you’ll see,” she insists, assessing her partner, who’s already looking much livelier, and even managing to sit upright. “Besides, something tells me you’re going to need him for questioning that bitch; she took quite a shine to him.”

Dan scoffs bitterly.

“I bet,” he says, and Chloe realises with great affection for her ex-husband that he is seething because Lucifer was attacked, that he was worried for his life, that, despite everything that happened between them in the last few months, he  _ cared; _ still cares, really. She closes her eyes and exhales slowly through her nose; maybe the two of them can finally get back to being friendly, now. She’d like that.

They arrive at the door to the wretched can of sardines, and Dan leaps out of the car to help Lucifer slide out of the vehicle. The two of them stand side by side, with Lucifer only slightly leaning against the wall, as they wait for Chloe to join them. Dan clears his throat, and turns to the other man, looking at him somewhat sheepishly.

“Hey, man,” he asks, frowning, still clearly worried and completely mortified by this sudden mother hen instinct that seems to manifest in him, “are you sure you don’t want to go to the ER?”

Lucifer nods, and it is a testament to his celestial metabolism that he can now stand on his own. Chloe comes up and touches his arm in reassurance.

“I’m sure,” he sighs, his speech no longer slurred, as he detaches himself from the wall and moves to open the door to the room. “Thanks for the concern, Daniel.”

“Don’t mention it, buddy,” Dan answers, eyes wide at the quick pace in which Lucifer seems to be recovering.

“I told you,” Chloe says, smiling and patting his chest fondly, before moving to follow her partner into the room. “He’ll be fine by the morning; goodnight, Dan.”

“Goodnight, Chlo,” he echoes, disbelief still written on his face, as Chloe closes the door behind her and Lucifer.

Once inside, and finally alone, she helps the still somewhat drugged Devil out of his clothes and into the bed where, in a similar state of undress, she joins him under the covers. She places her head on his chest, where his heart thumps a little erratically, and his arm comes around her shoulders, his fingers combing gently through her hair.

“Do you want me to leave?” Chloe asks quietly, her breath ghosting over his chest. “So you can heal faster?”

“No,” Lucifer sighs and shakes his head, and his fingers falter and rest at her nape. “No, I want you to stay.”

“Then I’ll stay,” she replies and kisses the place just above his nipple.

They lie quietly together, and she’s almost certain that he’s fallen asleep when the motion of his fingers through her strands resumes, and he says suddenly, his voice soft, and full of yearning, “I’d have spun stars out of your golden hair, if I still could.”

His arms tighten around her as she weeps.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer and Chloe head into the precinct for a nice chat with a certain bartender.

The minute Chloe and Lucifer walk into the precinct, Dan rushes over to meet them, looking haggard and tired.

“Thanks for coming in after last night, guys; she’s not talking,“ he says, sounding even more exhausted than he looks. There’s a case file under his arm, and a fresh cup of coffee in his hand, and Chloe will gladly bet her old, frayed, but much beloved ‘Backstreet Boys’ T-shirt that this is not his first cup of molten caffeine today.

“You okay, Dan?” she asks in quiet concern. “You look dead on your feet.”

“Been here all night, ever since we brought Kirsten in, so no wonder I look like something the cat dragged in,” he sighs tiredly, and gives her and Lucifer the once over. “Now, you on the other hand…”

He’s not wrong. It may only be ten a.m. the morning following the attempted murder, but Lucifer’s already back in one of his trademark immaculate three-piece suits. His hair and stubble are impeccably styled, and he’s looking well-rested, as if he’s just returned from a three weeks’ vacation to the Maldives, instead of from a three-day undercover operation in a room that was little more than a cell, where he nearly got himself killed.

“You look great, man,” Dan finishes his thought, quite astonished at the picture of health before him, as if the person standing in front of him wasn’t slumped against the wall, barely moving, just a few hours ago. “Feeling okay?”

Lucifer gives him a brilliant smile, smooths his hands over his buttoned vest, and wiggles his eyebrows at the stupefied detective. “Never better, Daniel,” he replies, his voice cheerful and strong.

Chloe rolls her eyes good-naturedly and leans towards Dan. “We stopped at Lux,” she stage-whispers, swatting at the still smiling Lucifer with her hand, “ Mr. GQ Model here needed a wardrobe change.”

“That I did,” her partner concedes behind her, his good-cheer undiminished by the jibe, “and aren’t you all glad I’m back to my handsome, devilish self?”

She’s not just happy, of course, she’s  _ ecstatic, _ and from the almost fond look on Dan’s face, he’s pretty pleased too; Chloe finds herself smiling widely, ridiculous happiness bubbling over and practically spilling out of her ears.

“Yeah, man,” Dan admits, slapping Lucifer cheerfully on the shoulder. “Welcome back.”

The cute little bromance moment between the two men in her life is definitely heart melting, and absolutely adorable, but they have a job to do, and a demented killer to question, so Chloe clears her throat, trying unsuccessfully to smother her smile.

“Um, guys?” she quips, and they turn to her immediately, Dan looking like a deer caught in the headlights. “Killer to question?”

Her ex-husband drops his hand off her partner’s shoulder, removes the case file from under his arm, and takes a step backwards and towards the interrogation rooms.

“Right,” he says and coughs, motioning with the file for them to follow him. “Come on; she’s waiting in there.”

They pass by the kitchen, where Dan drops off the still full cup of coffee, insisting that he will make himself a fresh one once the questioning is over; as they continue on their way, he fills them in on the events of the night after Kirsten was brought in and processed.

“She’s a real piece of work, that one,” he says, half a step ahead of Lucifer and Chloe. They pass by a hulky looking sergeant, and Dan greets him amicably, “How are you doing, Davis; kids alright?” Then, frowning, continues, “Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah, a piece of work – cursing, attempting to bite half of the guys on shift. 

“A real lady,” he adds as they reach the doors to the interrogation room.

Chloe’s eyebrows rise in silent astonishment at the account of Kirsten’s behaviour; behind her, she can hear Lucifer cackling.

“Dan,” she interrupts, a sudden thought striking her, and he stops walking and turns to her, his eyebrows raised in question.

“I think Lucifer should walk in there alone,” she explains, gesturing towards the room. “You and I can wait behind the two-way mirror in the adjacent room.”

Dan looks sceptical, and just a little worried at the suggestion.

“Are you sure, Chlo?” he asks, frowning, and then turns to regard Lucifer with raised eyebrows. “You’d be okay to do it, man?”

Chloe can feel the raw energy oozing off her partner as he stands at ease beside her, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He’s smirking, and she can’t help but think, as she shivers a little involuntarily, that there is something deadly in the way his attractive lips curl at one corner of his mouth.

“Not a problem, Daniel,” he replies, quietly, and nods towards the door. “I’d love a chat.”

“Trust me, Dan,” Chloe supplies, recovering swiftly; she’s not afraid of the Devil – she has no reason to be. “We’re likely to have more success with Lucifer doing the questioning; eccentric methods notwithstanding.”

Dan is still frowning, but Lucifer’s already at the door, and, after bowing with a flourish at the cop standing guard, he slinks inside with graceful ease. Chloe shrugs at her ex-husband and enters the adjacent room, trusting him to follow her. Once inside, she settles against the glass, her arms crossed, the sight of her partner sitting opposite his would-be murderer chilling her to the bone.

Kirsten’s dull eyes sparkle back to life at the sight of the one-who-got-away and grow wide with recognition.

“Sam…?” she whispers, and looks around the room frantically. “W-what are you doing here?”

On Chloe’s left, Dan frowns and mouths,  _ “Sam?” _ , clearly missing the point; Chloe chooses to ignore him for the moment.

Beyond the mirror, in the adjacent room, Lucifer crosses his legs and leans back in his seat, lounging like a smug cat.

“Wrong, darling,” he supplies, his voice deadly soft in the loud silence. “The name’s Lucifer – Morningstar – and I’m a civilian consultant for the LAPD.”

Something in the bartender’s face changes, and some of her old bravado returns; she regards the man in front of her with a condescending sneer.

“Lucifer?” she laughs snidely, and leans in, raking her eyes over the man’s perfect frame greedily. “What, like the devil?”

Lucifer leans in as well, his smiling mouth mere inches from Kirsten’s face. “Exactly like the devil, darling,” he purrs, and leans back again. A hasty look of disappointment crosses over the woman’s face, and he continues, “And I must say, you’ve been a very,  _ very, _ naughty girl, Kirsten.”

Behind the glass, Chloe shivers and Dan clears his throat.

“Is it just me,” he whispers uneasily, “or is this interrogation starting to sound incredibly  _ smutty?” _

Chloe shakes her head, unable to look away from the pair in the other room.

“It’s not just you,” she admits quietly. “This may as well be porn. Disturbing porn, but porn nonetheless.”

Dan scoffs and tugs on his collar, humming his agreement.

Inside the interrogation room, Kirsten throws her head back and laughs.

“My, you’re even more fucked up than I am if you really believe you’re the Devil,” she sneers, licking her lips. “But  _ damn _ , you look even better in this get-up; good enough to eat.” She leans forward, and her smile is suddenly all teeth. “Wish I did eat you when I had the chance.”

Lucifer seems unfazed by the woman’s words. And why should he? No doubt he’d seen and heard far worse.

“So, we’ll just go ahead and add ‘cannibalism’ to the line of charges, shall we?” he says, smiling nicely, and pulling on his cufflinks. In the adjacent room, Chloe frowns and turns to the other detective.

“Do you think she’s serious?” she asks, tapping the fingers of her right hand on her left arm. “About eating people?”

Dan shakes his head, his eyes narrowing.

“I doubt it,” he explains, pointing towards the mirror with his file. “I think she’s just trying to mess with Lucifer, get into his head. Doesn’t appear to be working; she’ll be getting frustrated soon.”

Dan sounds vaguely impressed, and Chloe allows herself a small smile; nobody can pull off ‘insufferably aggravating’ better than the Devil. Kirsten probably doesn’t have long until she cracks.

“Alright, darling...” Lucifer’s voice filters through the speakers, and Chloe returns her focus to the here and now, narrowing her eyes at the couple in the other room. From the insistent tapping of his fingers against his knee, it becomes apparent that Lucifer’s had enough of games, and it’s now time for the punishment. “This has been really splendid, but I do have other matters to attend to, so— Come on, love; look at me.  _ I know you want to.” _

Chloe’s breath catches in her throat as Kirsten’s gaze becomes unfocused; Dan whistles softly.

“That eye trick of his is seriously spooky, Chlo,” he whispers, shivering visibly. “Boy, am I glad he’s on our side.”

Beyond the mirror, Lucifer leans in, no doubt smiling enticingly at the bartender.

“So, Kirsten,” he purrs sinfully, and Chloe wonders briefly what it feels like to be completely under his spell, “what is it that you desire most in the world? Go on, darling; tell me.”

“I— -,” the woman gasps helplessly, and Lucifer leans in even closer.

_ “Yes?” _ the timbre of his voice seeps through the speakers and coils in Chloe’s belly; did she always react like this to his questioning? Or has it only started now that she knows who he is, and had a first-row seat to the exhibition of what he can do with his body?

“I want them to suffer as I have suffered!” Kirsten gasps suddenly and the spell breaks; Lucifer leans back, as laid-back as ever, and fiddles with his cufflinks.

“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asks innocently, and the woman in front of him frowns and looks away. “So, who must suffer? Were we molested by a tall, dark man when we were little or were we just snubbed by one?”

Both Chloe and Dan exhale exasperatedly at Lucifer’s lack of tact; you really can’t teach an old Devil new tricks.

Kirsten scoffs and turns to regard Lucifer with a scornful sneer.

“I don’t have a sap story to tell,  _ Satan,” _ she spits vehemently and crosses her arms as best she can while being handcuffed to the table. “I just  _ despise _ good-looking men who’re so used to women falling at their feet; like that smug, stupid Johnny Taylor back home— But I sure showed him, didn’t I?”

“Snubbed by one it is, then.” Lucifer nods to himself and shifts in his seat.

Chloe turns to Dan. “Get anything you can find about her and her past – look for that Johnny Taylor she mentioned – perhaps dig around for any unsolved murders matching the description of our victims. Maybe it’s not the first time she’s gone on a killing spree.” At Dan’s hesitant look she smiles and gestures with her head towards the door. “It’s okay, I’ll stay here and monitor Lucifer; don’t worry.”

When Dan hurries out of the room, Chloe turns back to the pair beyond the mirror; Kirsten is back to ogling Lucifer like a ravenous man-eater.

“You know, I never fucked my victims, just made them think I will,” she brags, and licks her lips suggestively. “But  _ you _ …I would have climbed you like a tree before snuffing the light out of your pretty eyes, handsome. I didn’t plan on killing that other guy – the one that walked into my bar after you left that first night – but I just couldn’t help myself….”, she purrs, her voice deepens, and she shifts restlessly in her seat. “I got so excited after meeting you. You know, I’d have fucked you right there on the bar, in front of all those dirty drunks, and then I would have choked you when you came all over me.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Lucifer deadpans, and the sound of his voice becomes steely as if he has had enough of this particular sinner.

In the other room, Chloe blanches and cringes. Dan was right; this woman really is a piece of work. She finds herself wondering whether Kirsten is as insane as she portrays herself to be, or whether this is all just an act for Lucifer’s benefit. Back at the bar, the woman appeared as sane as the next person.

Whatever Kirsten’s deal is – act or no act – Lucifer doesn’t seem the least bit impressed.

“Now, darling, I don’t always give the miscreants I help catch the ‘grand tour’,” he says softly, and his voice is being deceptively luscious; Kirsten’s smile grows wide with lust. “But for  _ you _ …for you I’m willing to chance a sneak peek— Not the whole show, mind; we wouldn’t want you to be unfit for trial…”

He doesn’t even need to lean in this time; Kirsten’s wide grin freezes in place, her eyes widen in horror, and the corners of her mouth slip downwards, moulding the attractive lines of her face into a grotesque grimace.

The horrified screams fill the room, as the woman falls off the chair, while her hands remain cuffed to the table.

“A priest!” she shrieks like a banshee, hiding her face in the crook of her hanging arm. “A priest! Get me a priest! I need to confess!  _ Oh Father, who art in Heaven—” _

And Lucifer laughs, deep and loud, and Chloe’s blood freezes in her veins, the icicles pricking at her heart.

This is divine justice at work; this is deific retribution – the Wrath of God, his poison –  _ Samael _ – the one who would not judge and damn, but who will punish those who damn themselves.

“Yes, I’m sure my father will be likely to heed this garbled attempt at repentance,” he scoffs, and turns his profile to the glass. Chloe gasps; his eyes are still burning with righteous wrath. “Is that enough for you, detective?” he asks, the corner of his lips twisting upwards.

Thoroughly shaken, Chloe presses the intercom button and takes a deep breath.

_ “Quite,” _ she gasps, just as Dan and a few other uni’s burst into the interrogation room, no doubt alerted by the inhuman shrieks erupting from the inside.

“What happened?” Dan cries, taking in the screeching woman on the floor, and the easy-going Lucifer, lounging in the chair as if he owns the place. “I was only gone ten minutes!”

Her partner rises to his feet effortlessly and brushes off invisible specks of dust from his tailored suit as two cops try to uncuff the agitated woman and lead her away to one of the holding cells.

“I think you’ll find, Daniel,” Lucifer says, speaking softly, and heading for the door, “that our dear Kirsten just saw the error of her wicked ways.” When he’s nearly out of the room, he turns around, smiles wickedly at Dan, and winks. “Oh, and do get her that priest she’s shrieking about; after all, it can’t hurt, can it?”

Dan hurries off in a rush, no doubt on an urgent quest of seeking out a priest – or, possibly, even an exorcist – when Lucifer slips quietly into the adjacent room where Chloe waits, smiling uncertainly. However, one look at Lucifer’s sombre countenance and the smile completely disappears from her face.

“What is it?” she asks, heart sinking/ “We just caught a killer, you got to dish out punishment; I thought you’d be pleased…”

The look of bewildered astonishment on her partner’s face wounds her very soul; she takes a step forward and reaches for his hands.

“You mean, you’re not repulsed by what you just witnessed?” he asks softly, looking at their joined hands in disbelief. “You still want to—?”

“Hey,” she whispers, rising on tiptoes and bringing her palms to his face. “Hey…I  _ know _ you… This-this was just you doing what needed to be done, Lucifer.”

“And you don’t think that was unnecessarily cruel?” he challenges her, his eyes delving into hers, daring her to sugar-coat the truth for him. “Surely I didn’t need to laugh when she nearly soiled herself praying?”

Chloe shrugs, not releasing his cheeks from her hold.

“Maybe,” she concedes, giving him a small, hesitant smile, “but that woman in there drugged you and nearly killed you yesterday, and she murdered innocent men whose only crime was that they were tall, dark and in their 30s….so I’m gonna go ahead and give you a pass on this one.”

Lucifer’s eyes grow wide, his brows crease, and he raises his left hand to cover her right one over his cheek.

“You are a remarkable woman, Chloe Decker,” he sighs in disbelief, “and completely mental for accepting the Devil.”

She laughs and rises upwards to kiss his parted lips.

“I love you,” she whispers, her thumbs gently brushing his stubbled cheeks, “and I want  _ you, _ horns and pitchfork and all; do you want me?”

His eyes are burning bright, but not with hellfire, and she can see, deep beyond the lovely brown, that blazing gleam from aeons before, back when he lit the stars alight.

_ “Yes,” _ he answers with so much conviction that Chloe has to close her eyes, lest she be swept away and blinded by the force of his will.

“Then have me,” she sighs against his lips –- and there’s a small pause when she feels the ghost of his mouth on hers, barely touching – and then he kisses her with gusto, and crushes her to him in ardent enthusiasm, and she’s squealing in delight against his smiling mouth, and—

“I KNEW IT!!!”

Lucifer nearly drops her in surprise at the excited shriek coming from the doorway, where a certain bespectacled forensic scientist stands gaping at them and dancing on the spot in undignified delight.

“I knew it, I knew it, I kneeewwwww iiitttt!!!” she cries, sailing into the room and almost tackling both Chloe and Lucifer to the floor by the sheer power of her enthusiasm.

“Oh my God,  _ finally!” _ Ella cries, her cheek smashed against Lucifer’s side in the weird three-way hug she’s insinuated. “The sexual tension was killing me together with half the population of this city! I mean, come on! Just get a room you two! Luckily you totally did! Hey, name your firstborn daughter after me, yes? Because I totally CALLED IT! Oh my God, how totes adorable you’d look with a little baby girl, Lucifer—” –“

“Ella, I think you’re scaring him,” Chloe interrupts her, laughing nervously at the greenish tinge to her partner’s face at the mention of possible future offspring. “Maybe not quite yet?”

“Right!” Ella says and detaches herself from the haggard pair, walking backwards without taking her eyes off her friends, and smiling like the Cheshire Cat who also happened to snag some cream.

“I’ll give you two lovebirds some privacy,”he grins, wiggling her eyebrows, and opens the door, yelling,  “HEY, GOMEZ; YOU OWE ME FIFTY BUCKS!”

The door slams shut behind her, and Chloe turns to Lucifer, smiling apologetically.

“Don’t mind Ella, she’s just excited—”

“Don’t worry, darling.” He smiles mischievously at her, and tucks an errant golden strand behind her ear. “I’m sure Miss Lopez will change her tune about lovely baby girls once she knows I am the actual, biblical Devil.”

“You wouldn’t!” Chloe cries and swats at his arm, only to receive a peal of impish laughter for her troubles. Her own smile widens, and she joins in the laughter, and the ache in her bones – the one she felt on  _ his _ behalf – sighs in contentment and bids her farewell.

And when the laughter dies down to soft chuckles and even softer touches, Lucifer leans down to take her in his arms.

“I remember everything about last night,” he mutters into her skin, and his arms around her middle tighten, “and I meant every word, Chloe.”

“I know you did,” she whispers against his ear, and he raises his head to take in every line and crinkle of her face.

“So, now what?” Chloe asks, once the inspection is over, and his hands settle on her waist.

Lucifer smiles, and the smile is genuine and warm and free of pain.

“Now we’ll just be,” he proposes and looks down at her with that incredible intensity that hides behind his eyes; and she smiles too, ache-less and unconstrained.

“Now we’ll just be,” she echoes and rises to kiss him again.

And this is good. This is… _ good. _

They’ve been due ‘good’ for a while now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannndd that's all she wrote!
> 
> I'm very thankful to all who reviewed and read, and sent their kudos. It means the world to me!
> 
> If you liked "Motel California" stay tuned for the sequel, "Something Wicked", that's being written as we speak!
> 
> And if you wish to check on my progress, or just have a chat about Deckerstar or anything else, really - come find me on tumblr. I'm under the same name:)
> 
> All the thanks and kudos and undying love to my dear Obliobla! Thanks for taking one for the team and editing the hell out of this rubbish!
> 
> Bye, peeps:)
> 
> UPDATE: 'Something Wicked' starts posting on September 7th. See you there!

**Author's Note:**

> So, are we feeling that angst yet?
> 
> More to come!:D


End file.
